
Class _AiiL2:714- 
Book 



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CopyrigMN?. 



CQEffilGHT DEPOSm 



Green Fields and 
Running Brooks 



/ 



BY 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 



J 3 



INDIANAPOLIS 

THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY 
1893 



\) 









Copyright 1892 
By JAMES W. RILEY 



(4) 



TO MY SISTERS 

Elva and Mary 



(5) 



CONTENTS. 

Proem ......... 13 

Artemus of Michigan, The ...... 146 

As My Uncle Used to Say ...... 83 

At Utter Loaf ........ 174 

August ......... 66 

Autumn ......... 183 

Bedouin ......... 189 

Being His Mother ....... 70 

Blind 86 

Blossoms on the Trees, The ...... 206 

By Any Other Name ...... 134 

By Her White Bed ....... 204 

Chant of the Cross-Bearing Child, The .... 179 

Country Pathway, A ....... 15 

Cup of Tea, A ....... 143 

Curse of the Wandering Foot, The ..... 107 

Cyclone, The ........ 25 

Dan Paine ......... 171 

Dawn, Noon and Dewfall ...... 81 

Discouraging Model, A . . . . . . . 207 

Ditty of No Tone, A ...... . 22 

Don Piatt of Mac-o-chee ...... 121 

Dot Leedle Boy ....... 116 

Dream of Autumn, A . . . . . . .5° 

(7) 



8 CONTENTS. 




Elizabeth ...... 


i68 


Envoy . ..... 


224 


Farmer Whipple — Bachelor .... 


73 


Full Harvest, A . . ... 


. 85 


Glimpse of Pan, A . 


210 


Go, Winter ...... 


. 167 


Her Beautiful Eyes ..... 


115 


Hereafter, The ...... 


141 


His Mother's Way ..... 


45 


His Vigil 


. 132 


Home at Night ..... 


57 


Home-Going, The ..... 


29 


Hoodoo, The ...... 


148 


Hoosier Folk-Child, The .... 


. 58 


How John Quit the Farm . . . . ■ 


31 


Iron Horse, The ...... 


42 


Iry and Billy and Jo .... 


112 


Jack the Giant-Killer 


. 62 


Jap Miller ...... 


46 


John Alden and Percilly ..... 


. 175 


John Brown ...... 


142 


John McKeen ...... 


216 


Judith ....... 


I4S 


June at Woodruff ..... 


71 


Just to Be Good ..... 


56 


Last Night— And This 


. 208 


Let Us Forget ..... 


194 


Little Fat Doctor, The ..... 


97 


Longfellow ...... 


215 


Lounger, A ...... 


. 176 


Monument for the Soldiers, A . . . 


109 


Mr. What's-His-Name ..... 


. 220 



CONTENTS. 



My Friend ........ 201 

Nessmuk ......... 82 

North and South ....... 40 

Old Retired Sea Captain, The . . . . . . loi 

Old Winters on the Farm ...... 173 

Old Year and the New, The ...... 139 

On the Banks o' Deer Crick ..... 20 

Out of Nazareth ......'. 211 

Passing of A Heart, The ...... 203 

Plaint Human, The ....... 133 

Quarrel, The . . . . . . . . 137 . 

Quiet Lodger, The . . . . . . .126 

Reach Your Hand to Me . . . . . . igS 

Right Here at Home ....... 95 

Rival, The ........ m 

Rivals, The; or the Showman's Ruse .... 149 

Robert Burns Wilson ....... 103 

Rose, The . . . . . . . . . 199 

September Dark . . . . . . . 209 

Shoemaker, The ........ 99 

Singer, The ........ 84 

Sister Jones's Confession ...... 106 

Sleep ......... 170 

Some Scattering Remarks of Bub's ..... 219 

Song of Long Ago, A ...... 177 

Southern Singer, A ....... 48 

Suspense ........ 202 

Thanksgiving . . . . . . . .181 

Their Sweet Sorrow ....... 218 

Them Flowers ........ 124 

To an Importunate Ghost ...... 136 

To Hear Her Sing ....... 68 



10 CONTENTS. 




Tom Van Arden ..... 


52 


To the Serenader ...... 


. 104 


Tugg Martin ...... 


igo 


Twins, The ...... 


. 187 


Wandering Jew, The .... 


213 


Watches of the Night, The .... 


. 130 


Water Color, A ..... 


24 


We to Sigh Instead of Sing .... 


. 205 


What Chris'mas Fetched the Wigginses . 


153 


When Age Comes On ..... 


• 223 


Where-Away ...... 


' 27 


While the Musician Played .... 


. 64 


Wife-Blessed, The 


105 


Wraith of Summertime, A . . . . 


. 114 



Green Fields and 

Running Brooks 



(II) 



LIO ! green fields and running brooks ! 
Knotted strings and fishing-hooks 
Of the truant, stealing down 
Weedy hackways of the town. 

Where the sunshine overlooks, 
By green fields and running brooks, 
All intruding guests of chance 
With a golden tolerance. 

Cooing doves, or pensive pair 
Of picnickers, straying there — 
By green fields- and running brooks. 
Sylvan shades and mossy nooks ! 

And — O Dreamer of the Days, 

Murmur er of roundelays 

All unsung of words or books, 

Sing green fields and running brooks ! 



(13) 



A COUNTRY PATHWAY. 15 



A COUNTRY PATHWAY. 

I COME upon it suddenly, alone — 
A little pathway winding in the weeds 
That fringe the roadside ; and with dreams my own, 
I wander as it leads. 

Full wistfully along the slender way. 

Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine, 
I tatce the path that leads me as it may — 

Its every choice is mine. 

A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail, 

Is startled by my step as on I fare — 
A garter-snake across the dusty trail 

Glances and — is not there. 

Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos 

And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies, 
Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose 

When autumn winds arise. 

The trail dips — dwindles — broadens then, and lifts 

Itself astride a cross-road dubiously. 
And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts 

Still onward, beckoning me. 



i6 A COUNTT{Y PAT HIV AY. 

And though it needs must lure me miles on miles 
Out of the public highway, still I go, 

My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file, 
Allure me even so. 

Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went 
At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, 

And was not found again, though Heaven lent 
His mother all the stars 

With which to seek him through that awful night. 

years of nights as vain ! — Stars never rise 
But well might miss their glitter in the light 

Of tears in mother-eyes! 

So — on, with quickened breaths, I follow still — 

My avant-courier must be obeyed ! 
Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will. 

Invites me to invade 

A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide 
Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile. 

And stumbles down again, the other side. 
To gambol there awhile 

In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead 

1 see it running, while the clover-stalks 
Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said — 

"You dog our country-walks 



A COUNTRY PATHJVAY. ij 

"And mutilate us with your wall<ing-stick ! — 
We will not suffer tamely what you do 
And warn you at your peril, — for we 'II sic 
Our bumble-bees on you!" 

But I smile back, in airy nonchalance, — 
The more determined on my wayward quest, 

As some bright memory a moment dawns 
A morning in my breast — 

Sending a thrill that hurries me along 

In faulty similes of childish skips. 
Enthused with lithe contortions of a song 

Performing on my lips. 

In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth — 
Erratic wanderings through dead'ning-Iands, 

Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth, 
Put berries in my hands : 

Or, the path climbs a boulder — wades a slough— 
Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags, 

Goes gaily dancing o'er a deep bayou 
On old tree-trunks and snags : 

Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool 
Upon a bridge the stream itself has made. 

With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool 
That its foundation laid. 



i8 A COUI^TT{Y PATHWAY. 

I pause a moment here to bend and muse. 
With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where 

A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise, 
Or wildly oars the air, 

As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brool< — 
The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed — 

Swings pivoting about, with wary look 
Of low and cunning greed. 

Till, filled with other thought, 1 turn again 
To where the pathway enters in a realm 

Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign 
Of towering oak and elm. 

A puritanic quiet here reviles 

The almost whispered warble from the hedge. 
And takes a locust's rasping voice and files 

The silence to an edge. 

In such a solitude my somber way 
Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom 

Of his own shadows — till the perfect day 
Bursts into sudden bloom, 

And crowns a long, declining stretch of space, 
Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled, 

And where the valley's dint in Nature's face 
Dimples a smiling world. 



A COUNTRY PATHIVAY. 19 

And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled, 

I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams. 
Where, like a gem in costly setting held, 
The old log cabin gleams. 



O darling Pathway ! lead me bravely on 
Adown your valley way, and run before 

Among the roses crowding up the lawn 
And thronging at the door, — 

And carry up the echo there that shall 
Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay 

The household out to greet the prodigal 
That wanders home to-day. 



ON THE BANKS O' DEER CRICK. 



ON THE BANKS O' DEER CRICK. 

ON the banks o' Deer Crick ! There 's the place fer 
me!— 
Worter slidin' past ye jes as clair as it kin be: — 
See yer sliadder in it, and the shadder o' the sl<:y, 
And the shadder o' the buzzard as he goes a-lazein' by; 
Shadder o' the pizen-vines, and shadder o' the trees — 
And I purt'-nigh said the shadder o' the sunshine and 

the breeze ! 
Well — I never seen the ocean ner 1 never seen the sea : 
On the banks o' Deer Crick 's grand enough fer me ! 

On the banks o' Deer Crick— mild er two from town— 
'Long up where the mill-race comes a-loafni' down, — 
Like to git up in there — 'mongst the sycamores — 
And watch the worter at the dam, a-frothin' as she 

pours : 
Crawl out on some old log, with my hook and line. 
Where the fish is jes so thick you kin see 'em shine 
As they flicker round yer bait, coaxm' you to jerk, 
Tel yer tired ketchin' of 'em, mighty nigh, as work.' 

On the banks o' Deer Crick ! — Alius my delignt 
Jes to be around there — take it day er night !^ 
Watch the snipes and killdees foolin' half the day — 
Er these-'ere little worter-bugs skootin' ever'way ! — 



ON THE BANKS O' DEER CRICK. 21 



Snakefeeders glancin' round, er dartin' out o' sight ; 
And dew-fall, and bullfrogs, and lightnin'-bugs at 

night — 
Stars up through the tree-tops— er in the crick below, — 
And smell o' raussrat through the dark clean from the 

old b'y-o! 

Er take a tromp, some Sund'yj say, 'way up to 

" Johnson's Hole," 
And find where he 's had a fire, and hid his fishin'-pole: 
Have yer " dog-leg," with ye and yer pipe and "cut- 

and-dry " — 
Pocketful o' corn-bred, and slug er two o' rye, — 
Soak yer hide in sunshine and waller in the shade — 
Like the Good Book tells us — " where there 're none to 

make afraid!" 
Well ! — I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea — 
On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me! 



22 A DITTY OF NO TONE. 



A DITTY OF NO TONE— 

Piped to the Spirit of John Keats. 
I. 
OULD that my lips might pour out in thy praise 



w 



A fitting melody — an air sublime, — 
A song sun-washed and draped in dreamy haze — 

The floss and velvet of luxurious rhyme : 
A lay wrought of warm languors, and o'er-brimmed 
With balminess, and fragrance of wild flowers 
Such as the droning bee ne'er wearies of — 
Such thoughts as might be hymned 
To thee from this midsummer land of ours 
Through shower and sunshine blent for very love. 

11. 

Deep silences in woody aisles wherethrough 

Cool paths go loitering, and where the trill 
Of best-remembered birds hath something new 

In cadence for the hearing — lingering still 
Through all the open day that lies beyond ; 
Reaches of pasture-lands, vlne-wreathen oaks. 
Majestic still in pathos of decay; — 
The road — the wayside pond 
Wherein the dragonfly an instant soaks 
His filmy wing-tips ere he flits away. 



A DITTY OF NO TONE. 23 



And I would pluck from out the dank, rich mould, 

Thick-shaded from the sun of noon, the long 
Lithe stalks of barley, topped with ruddy gold. 
And braid them in the meshes of my song ; 
And with them I would tangle wheat and rye, 
And wisps of greenest grass the katydid 
Ere crept beneath the blades of, sulkily, 
As harvest-hands went by ; 
And weave of all, as wildest fancy bid, 
A crown of mingled song and bloom for thee. 



M A WATER-COLOR. 



A WATER-COLOR. 

T OW hidden in among the forest trees 
■*— ' An artist's tilted easel, ankle-deep 
In tousled ferns and mosses, and in these 
A fluffy water-spaniel, half asleep 
Beside a sketch-book and a fallen hat — 
A little wicker flask tossed into that. 

A sense of utter carelessness and grace 

Of pure abandon in the slumb'rous scene,— 
As if the June, all hoydenish of face, 
Had romped herself to sleep there on the green, 
And brink and sagging bridge and sliding stream 
Were just romantic parcels of her dream. 



THE CYCLONE. 25 



THE CYCLONE. 

O O lone I stood, the very trees seemed drawn 
^ In conference with themselves. — Intense — intense 
Seemed everything ; — the summer splendor on 
The sight, — magnificence ! 

A babe's life might not lighter fail and die 
Than failed the sunlight. — Though the hour was noon. 

The palm of midnight might not lighter lie 
Upon the brow of June. 

With eyes upraised, I saw the underwings 
Of swallows — gone the instant afterward — 

While from the elms there came strange tsvitterlngs, 
Stilled scarce ere they were heard. 

The river seemed to shiver ; and, far down 
■ Its darkened length, I saw the sycamores 
Lean inward closer, under the vast frown 
That weighed above the shores. 

Then was a roar, born of some awful burst ! — 
And one lay, shrieking, chattering, in my path — 

Flung — he or I — out of some space accurst 
As of Jehovah's wrath : 



26 THE CYCLONE. 



Nor barely had he wreaked his latest prayer, 
Ere back the noon flashed o'er the ruin done, 

And, o'er uprooted forests touseled there, 
The birds sang in the sun. 



IVHERE-AIVAY. 



WHERE-AWAY. 

/^ THE Lands of Where- Away! 
^-^ Tell us — tell us — where are they? 
Through the darkness and the dawn 
We have journeyed on and on — • 
From the cradle to the cross — 
From possession unto loss. — 
Seeking still, from day to day, 
For the lands of Where-Away. 

When our baby-feet were first 
Planted where the daisies burst, 
And the greenest grasses grew 
In the fields we wandered through,- 
On, with childish discontent. 
Ever on and on we went, 
Hoping still to pass, some day, 
O'er the verge of Where-Away. 

Roses laid their velvet lips 
On our own, with fragrant sips ; 
But their kisses held us not, 
All their sweetness we forgot; — 
Though the brambles in our track 
Plucked at us to hold us back — 
"Just ahead," we used to say, 
"Lie the Lands of Where-Away." 



28 IVHERE-A IVAY. 



Children at the pasture-bars, 

Through the dusk, like glimmering stars. 

Waved their hands that we should bide 

With them over eventide : 

Down the dark their voices failed 

Falteringly, as they hailed, 

And died into yesterday — 

Night ahead and — Where-Away? 

Twining arms about us thrown — 
Warm caresses, all our own, 
Can but stay us for a spell — 
Love hath little new to tell 
To the soul in need supreme, 
Aching ever with the dream 
Of the endless bliss it may 
Find in Lands of Where-Away! 



THE HOME-GOING. 



THE HOME-GOING. 

■\T /■£ must get home — for we have been away 
" "^ So long it seems forever and a day ! 
And O so very homesick we have grown, 
The laughter of the world is like a moan 
In our tired hearing, and its songs as vain, — 
We must get home—we must get home again ! 

We must get home: It hurts so, staying here. 
Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear, 
And where to wear wet lashes means, at best, 
When most our lack, the least our hope of rest — 
When most our need of joy, the more our pain — 
We must get home — we must get home again ! 

We must get home : All is so quiet there : 
The touch of loving hands on brow and hair — 
Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild — ■ 
The lost love of the mother and the child 
Restored in restful lullabies of rain. — 
We must get home — we must get home again ! 

We must get home, where, as we nod and 

drowse. 
Time humors us and tiptoes through the house. 



30 THE HOME-GOING. 

And loves us best when sleeping baby-wise, 
With dreams — not tear-drops — brimming our 

clenched eyes, — 
Pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain- 
We must get home — we must get home again ! 

We must get home ; and, unremembering there 
All gain of all ambitions otherwhere, 
Rest — ^from the feverish victory, and the crown 
Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.- 
Fame's fairest gifts we toss back with disdain — 
We must get home — we must get home again ! 



HOIV JOHN QUIT THE FARM. 31 



HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM. 

NOBODY on tlie old farm here but Mother, me and 
John, 
Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time 

come on — 
And then, I want to say to you, we needed he'p about, 
As you 'd admit, ef you 'd a-seen the way the crops 
turned out! 



A better quarter-section, ner a richer soil warn't found 
Than this-here old-home place 0' ourn fer fifty miles 

, around! — 
The house was small — but plenty-big we found it from 

the day 
That John — our only livin' son — packed up and went 

away. 

You see, we tuck sich pride in John — his mother more 'n 

me — 
That's natchurul ; but hoth of us was proud as proud 

could be; 
Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most onco'mmon 

bright. 
And seemed in work as well as play to take the same 

delight. 



32 HOIV JOHN QUIT THE FARM. 

He alius went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at 

heart 
As robins up at five o'clock to git an airly start ; 
And many a time 'fore daylight Mother 's waked me up 

to say — 
"Jest listen, David! — listen! — Johnny's beat the birds 

to-day!" 

High-sperited from boyhood, with a most inquirin' turn, — 
He wanted to learn ever'thing on earth they was to 

learn : 
He 'd ast more plaguey questions in a mortal-minute 

here 
Than his grandpap in Paradise could answer in a year ! 

And read! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read 
and spell ; 

And " The Childern of the Abbey " — w'y, he knowed 
that book as well 

At fifteen as his parents! — and "The Pilgrim's Prog- 
ress," too — 

Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em 
through and through! 



HOH^ JOHN QUIT THE FARM. 33 

At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better 

chance — 
That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance; 
And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged 

and kep' on, 
Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he 

was gone. 

But — I missed him — w'y of course I did ! — The Fall and 

Winter through 
1 never built the kitchen-fne, er split a stick in two, 
Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel- 

pin, 
But what I thought 0' John, and wished that he was 

home agin. 

He 'd come, sometimes — on Sund'ys most — and stay the 

Sund'y out ; 
And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be 

about : 
But a change was workin' on him — he was stiller than 

before, 
And did n't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any 

more. 



34 HO IV JOHN QUIT THE FARM. 

And his talk was all so proper; and 1 noticed, with a 

sigh, 
He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a 

striped tie, 
And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as 

bone ; 
And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat 

of his own. 

But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to 

come home 
And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see 

him come; 
But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun 

went down, 
When he bragged of " a position " that was offered 

him in town. 

"But," says I, "you'll not accept it?" "W'y, of 

course I will," says he. — 
"This drudgin' on a farm," he says, "is not the life 

fer me; 
I 've set my stakes up higher," he continued, light and 

gay, 
"And town 's the place fer me, and I 'm a-goin' right 

away!" 



HOJV JOHN QUIT THE FARM. 35 

And go he did! — his mother clingin' to him at tlie 

gate, 
A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weiglit. 
I was tranquiller, and told her 't warn't no use to 

worry so, 
And onclasped her arms from round his neck round 

mine — and let him go ! 

I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about 

The aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out; — 

I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuck the boy's 

hand, 
And though I did n't say a word, I knowed he 'd 

understand. 

And — well! — sence then the old home here was mighty 

lonesome, shore ! 
With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the 

door. 
Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more and 

more — 
Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store ! 



36 HOIV JOHN QUIT THE FARM. 

The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes 

the boy would write 
A letter to his mother, sayin' that his work was light, 
And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit — 
Though his business was confmin', he was gittin' used 

to it. 

And sometimes he would write and ast how / was 

gittin' on, 
And ef I had to pay out much fer he'p sence he was 

gone ; 
And how the hogs was doin', and the balance of the 

stock, 
And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to 

talk. 

And he wrote, along 'fore harvest, that he guessed he 

would git home, 
Fer business would, of course, be dull in town. — But 

didn't come: — 
We got a postal later, sayin' when they had no trade 
They filled the time " Invoicin' goods," and that was 

why he staid. 



HOIV JOHN QUIT THE FARM. 37 

And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word — 
Exceptin' what the neighbers brung who 'd been to 

town and heard 
What store John was clerkin' in, and went round to 

inquire 
If they could buy their goods there less and sell their 

produce higher. 

And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore 

away, 
And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanks- 

givin'-Day ! 
The night before that day of thanks I 'II never quite 

fergit, 
The wind a-howlin' round the house — it makes me 

creepy yit! 

And there set me and Mother — me a-twistin" at the 

prongs 
Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of 

tongs, 
And Mother sayin', ''^ David! David!'' in a' undertone, 
As though she thought that 1 was thinkin' bad-words 

unbeknown. 



38 HOIV JOHN QUIT THE FARM. 

" 1 've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow," 

Mother said, 
A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn 

head, — 
"And the mince-meat I 'm a-mixin' is perfection mighty 

nigh ; 
And the pound-cake is delicious-rich — " "Who'll eat 

'em?" I-says-I. 

"The cramberries is drippin'-sweet," says Mother, 

runnin' on, 
P'tendin' not to hear me; — "and somehow I thought 

of John 
All the time they was a-jellin' — fer you know they 

alius was 
His favorz'^^— he likes 'em so!" Says I, "Well, s'pose 

he does?" 

"Oh, nothin' much!" says Mother, with a quiet sort 

o' smile — 
"This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after 

while ! " 
And as I turned and looked around, some one riz up 

and leant 
And put his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed in 

low content. 



HO IV JOHN QUIT THE FARM. 39 

" It 's me," he says — " your fool-boy John, come back 

to shake your hand ; 
Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you 

understand 
How dearer yit than all the world is this old home 

that we 
Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life — jest Mother, you 

and me ! " 



Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John, 
Except of course the extry he'p, when harvest-time 

comes on ; 
And then, I want to say to you, we need sich he'p 

about, 
As you 'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops 

turns out! 



40 NORTH AND SOUTH. 



NORTH AND SOUTH. 

OF the North I wove a dream, 
All bespangled with the gleam \ 
Of the glancing wings of swallows 
Dipping ripples in a stream, 
That, like a tide of wine, 
Wound through lands of shade and shine 
Where purple grapes hung bursting on the vine. 

And where orchard-boughs were bent 
Till their tawny fruitage blent 

With the golden wake that marked the 
Way the happy reapers went ; 
Where the dawn died into noon 
As the May-mists into June, 
And the dusk fell like a sweet face in a swoon. 

Of the South I dreamed : And there 
Came a vision clear and fair 

As the marvelous enchantments 
Of the mirage of the air; 
And I saw the bayou-trees, 
With their lavish draperies. 
Hang heavy o'er the m.oon-washed cypress-knees. 



NORTH ^ND SOUTH. 41 

Peering from lush fens of rice, 
I beheld the Negro's eyes, 

Lit with that old superstition 
Death itself can not disguise ; 
And I saw the palm tree nod 
Like an oriental god, 
And the cotton froth and bubble from the pod. 

And I dreamed that North and South, 
With a sigh of dew and drouth, 

Blew each unto the other 
The salute of lip and mouth ; 
And I wakened, awed and thrilled— 
Every doubting murmur stilled 
In the silence of the dream I found fulfilled. 



42 THE IRON HORSE. 

THE IRON HORSE. 

NO song is mine of Arab steed — 
My courser is of nobler blood, 
And cleaner limb and fleeter speed, 

And greater strength and hardihood 
Than ever cantered wild and free 
Across the plains of Araby. 

Go search the level desert-land 
From Sana on to Samarcand — 
Wherever Persian prince has been 
Or Dervish, Sheik or Bedouin, 
And I defy you there to point 

Me out a steed the half so fine — 
From tip of ear to pastern-joint — 

As this old iron horse of mine. 

You do not know what beauty is — 
You do not know what gentleness 
His answer is to my caress ! — 

Why, look upon this gait of his, — 

A touch upon his iron rein — 
He moves with such a stately grace 

The sunlight on his burnished mane 
Is barely shaken in its place ; 
And at touch he changes pace, 
'H^And, gliding backward, stops again. 



THE IRON HORSE. 43 

And talk of mettle — Ah ! my friend, 

Such passion smoulders in his breast 
That when awakened it will send 

A thrill of rapture wilder than 

Ere palpitated heart of man 

When flaming at its mightiest. 
And there 's a fierceness in his ire — 

A maddened majesty that leaps 
Along his veins in blood of fire, 

Until the path his vision sweeps 
Spins out behind him like a thread 

Unraveled from the reel of time, 

As, wheeling on his course sublime, 
The earth revolves beneath his tread. 

Then stretch away -my gallant steed! 

Thy mission is a noble one : 

You bear the father to the son. 
And sweet relief to bitter need ; 
You bear the stranger to his friends ; 

You bear the pilgrim to the shrine, 
And back again the prayer he sends 

That God will prosper me and mine, — 
The star that on thy forehead gleams 
Has blossomed in our brightest dreams. 
Then speed thee on thy glorious race ! 
The mother waits thy ringing pace ; 



44 THE IRON HORSE. 

The father leans an anxious ear 
The thunder of thy hoofs to hear ; 
The lover listens, far away, 
To catch thy keen exultant neigh ; 
And, where thy breathings roll and rise, 
The husband strains his eager eyes. 
And laugh of wife and baby-glee 
Ring out to greet and welcome thee. 
Then stretch away ! and when at last 

The master's hand shall gently check 
Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast, 

The world will pat thee on the neck. 



HIS MOTHER'S WAY. 45 



HIS MOTHER'S WAY 

TOM PS 'ud alius haf to say 
Somepin' 'bout "his mother's way."- 
He lived hard-like — never jined 
Any church of any kind. — 
'It was Mother's way," says he, 
'To be good enough fer me 
And her too, — and certinly 

Lord has heerd her pray! " 
Propped up on his dyin' bed, — 
' Shore as Heaven 's overhead, 
I 'm a-goin' there," he said — 
"It was Mother's way." 



46 JAP MILLER. 



JAP MILLER. 

JAP MILLER down at Martinsville 's the blamedest 
feller yit! 
When he starts in a-talkin' other folks is apt to quit! — 
'Pears like that mouth o' his'n wuz n't made fer nuthin' 

else 
But jes' to argify 'em down and gether in their pelts: 
He '11 talk you down on tariff ; er he '11 talk you down 

on tax, 
And prove the pore man pays 'em all — and them 's 

about the fac's ! — 
Religen, law, er politics, prize-fightin', er base-ball — 
Jes' fetch Jap up a little and he '11 post you 'bout 'em 

all. 

And the comicalist feller ever tilted back a cheer 
And tuck a chaw tobacker kind o' like he did n't keer. — 
There 's where the feller's stren'th lays, — he 's so com- 
mon-like and plain, — 
They haint no dude about old Jap, you bet you — nary 

grain ! 
They 'lected him to Council and it never turned his 

head. 
And did n't make no differunce what anybody said, — 
He did n't dress no finer, ner rag out in fancy clothes ; 
But his voice in Council-meetin's is a turrer to his foes. 



JAP MILLER. 47 



He's fer the pore man ever' time! And in the last 

campaign 
He stumped old Morgan County, through the sunshine 

and the rain, 
And helt the banner up'ards from a-trailin' in the dust, 
And cut loose on monopolies and cuss'd and cuss'd and 

cuss'd! 
He 'd tell some funny story ever' now and then, you 

know, 
Tel, blame it! it wuz better 'n a jack-o'-lantern show! 
And I 'd go furder, yit, to-day, to hear old Jap norate 
Than any high-toned orator 'at ever stumped the State ! 

W'y, that-air blame Jap Miller, with his keen sircastic 

fun, 
Has got more friends than ary candidate 'at ever run ! 
Do n't matter what his views is, when he states the 

same to you, 
They alius coincide with your 'n, the same as two and 

two: 
You can't take issue with him — er, at least, they haint 

no sense 
In startin' in to down him, so you better not commence. — 
The best way 's jes' to listen, like your humble servant 

does, 
And jes' concede Jap Miller is the best man ever wuz! 



A SOUTHERN SINGER. 



A SOUTHERN SINGER. 

Written in Madison Cawein's "Lyrics and Idyls." 

TTEREIN are blown from out The South 
■*■ *■ Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed 

mouth — 
As sweet in voice as, in perfume, 
The night-breath of magnolia-bloom. 

Such sumptuous languor lures the sense — 
Such luxury of indolence — 
The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur, 
With water-lilies watching her. 

You waken, thrilling at the trill 
Of some wild bird that seems to spill 
The silence full of winey drips 
Of song that Fancy sips and sips. 

Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough 
The chipmunk stripes himself from view, 
You pause to lop a creamy spray 
Of elder-blossoms by the way. 

Or where the morning dew is yet 
Gray on the topmost rail, you set 
A sudden palm and, vaulting, meet 
Your vaulting shadow in the wheat. 



A SOUTHERN SINGER. 49 



On lordly swards, of suave incline, 
Entessellate with shade and shine. 
You shall misdoubt your lowly birth. 
Clad on as one of princely worth : 

The falcon on your wrist shall ride — 
Your milk-white Arab side by side 
With one of raven-black. — You fain 
Would kiss the hand that holds the rein. 

Nay, nay. Romancer! Poet! Seer! 
Sing us back home— from there to here: 
Grant your high grace and wit, but we 
Most honor your simplicity. — 

Herein are blown from out the South 
Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth- 
As sweet in voice as, in perfume, 
The night-breath of magnolia-bloom. 



50 A DREAM OF AUTUMN. 



A DREAM OF AUTUMN. 

1\ A ELLOW hazes, lowly trailing 

■^ ' *■ Over wood and meadow, veiling 

Somber skies, with wildfowl sailing 

Sailor-like to foreign lands ; 
And the north-wind overleaping 
Summer's brink, and floodlike sweeping 
Wrecks of roses where the weeping 
Willows wring their helpless hands. 

Flared, like Titan torches flinging 
Flakes of flame and embers, springing 
From the vale the trees stand swinging 

In the moaning atmosphere; 
While in dead'ning-lands the lowing 
Of the cattle, sadder growing, 
Fills the sense to overflowing 

With the sorrow of the year. 

Sorrowfully, yet the sweeter 
Sings the brook in rippled meter 
Under boughs that lithely teeter 

Lorn birds, answering from the shores 
Through the viny, shady-shiny 
Interspaces, shot with tiny 
Flying motes that fleck the winy 

Wave-engraven sycamores. 



A DREAM OF AUTUMN. 51 

Fields of ragged stubble, wrangled 
With rank weeds, and shocks of tangled 
Corn, with crests like rent plumes dangled 

Over Harvest's battle-plain ; 
And the sudden whir and whistle 
Of the quail that, like a missile, 
Whizzes over thorn and thistle, 

And, a missile, drops again. 

Muffled voices, hid in thickets 
Where the redbird stops to stick its 
Ruddy beak betwixt the pickets 

Of the truant's rustic trap ; 
And the sound of laughter ringing 
Where, within the wild-vine swinging, 
Climb Bacchante's schoolmates, flinging 

Purple clusters in her lap. 

Rich as wine, the sunset flashes 
Round the tilted world, and dashes 
Up the sloping west and,SE»ia^es 

Red foam over sky and sea-—"*"""^'--.^ 
Till my dream of Autumn, paling 
In the splendor all-prevailing. 
Like a sallow leaf goes sailing 

Down the silence solemnly. 



52 TOM VAN ARDEN. 

TOM VAN ARDEN. 

T^OM VAN ARDEN, my old friend, 
^ Our warm fellowship is one 
Far too old to comprehend 
Where its bond was first begun : 
Mirage-like before my gaze 
Gleams a land of other days. 
Where two truant boys, astray, 
Dream their lazy lives away. 

There 's a vision, in the guise 

Of Midsummer, where the Past 
Like a weary beggar lies 
hi the shadow Time has cast; 
And as blends the bloom of trees 
With the drowsy hum of bees, 
Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 

All the pleasures we have known 
Thrill me now as I extend 
This old hand and grasp your own — 
Feeling, in the rude caress. 
All affection's tenderness; 
Feeling, though the touch be rough, 
Our old souls are soft enough. 



TOM VAN ARDEN. 53 

So we 'II make a mellow hour : 

Fill your pipe, and taste the wine — 
Warp your face, if it be sour, 
I can spare a smile from mine; 
If it sharpen up your wit. 
Let me feel the edge of it — 
I have eager ears to lend, 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 
Are we "lucky dogs," indeed? 
Are we all that we pretend 
In the jolly life we lead? — 
Bachelors, we must confess, 
Boast of "single blessedness" 
To the world, but not alone — 
Man's best sorrow is his own! 

And the saddest truth is this, — 
Life to us has never proved _ 
What we tasted in the kiss 
Of the women we have loved : 
Vainly we congratulate 
Our escape from such a fate 
As their lying lips could send, 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend! 



54 TOM VA^ ARDEN. 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 

Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, 
Ripen sweetest, I contend, 
As the frost falls over them : 
Your regard for me to-day 
Makes November taste of May, 
And through every vein of rhyme 
Pours the blood of summertime. 

When our souls are cramped with youth 

Happiness seems far away 

In the future, while, in truth. 

We look back on it to-day 

Through our tears, nor dare to boast,- 
" Better to have loved and lost!" 
Broken hearts are hard to mend, 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 

1 grow prosy, and you tire; 
Fill the glasses while I bend 
To prod up the failing fire, . . 
You are restless : — I presume 
There 's a dampness in the room. — 
Much of warmth our nature begs, 
With rheumatics in our legs ! . . . 



TOM VAN ARDEN. 55 

Humph! the legs we used to fling 

Limber-jointed in the dance, 
When we heard the fiddle ring 
Up the curtain of Romance, 
And in crowded public halls 
Played with hearts like jugglers'-balls. — 
Feats of mountehanks, depend ! — 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 
Pardon, then, this theme of mine: 

While the fire-light leaps to lend 

. Higher color to the wine, — 
I propose a health to those 
Who have homes, and home's repose, 
Wife- and child-love without end! 
. . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 



JUST TO BE GOOD. 



JUST TO BE GOOD. 

TUST to be good— 
'-' This is enough — enough ! 

O we who find sin's billows wild and rough, 
Do we not feel how more than any gold 
Would be the blameless life we led of old 
While yet our lips knew but a mother's kiss? 
Ah ! though we miss 
All else but this, 

To be good is enough! 

It is enough — 

Enough — just to be good! 
To lift our hearts where they are understood; 
To let the thirst for worldly power and place 
Go unappeased; to smile back in God's face 
With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss. 
Ah ! though we miss 
All else but this, 

To be good is enough! 



HOME AT NIGHT. 57 



HOME AT NIGHT. 

WHEN chirping cricl-cets fainter cry, 
And pale stars blossom in the sky, 
And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloom 
And blurred the butterfly: 

When locust-blossoms fleck the walk, 
And up the tiger-lily stalk 
The glow-worm crawls and clings and falls 
And glimmers down the garden-walls : 

When buzzing things, with double wings 
Of crisp and raspish flutterings. 
Go whizzing by so very nigh 
One thinks of fangs and stings : — 

O then, within, is stilled the din 
Of crib she rocks the baby in, 
And heart and gate and latch's weight 
Are lifted — and the lips of Kate. 



58 THE HOOSIER FOLK-CHILD. 



THE HOOSIER FOLK-CHILD. 

'X'HE Hoosier Folk-Child — all unsung— 
*■ Unlettered all of mind and tongue; 
Unmastered, unmolested — made 
Most wholly frank and unafraid : 
Untaught of any school — un vexed 
Of law or creed — all unperplexed— 
Unsermoned, aye, and undefiled, 
An all imperfect-perfect child — 
A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you 
And I do tardy honor to, 
And so, profane the sanctities 
Of our most sacred memories. 
Who, growing thus from boy to man, 
That dares not be American? 
Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz — 
Go whistle! as the Folk-Child does. 

The Hoosier Folk-Child's world is not 
Much wider than the stable-lot 
Between the house and highway fence 
That bounds the home his father rents. 
His playmates mostly are the ducks 
And chickens, and the boy that " shucks 



THE HOOSIER FOLK-CHILD. 59 

Corn by the shock," and talks of town, 

And whether eggs are " up " or " down," 

And prophesies in boastful tone 

Of "owning horses of his own," 

And "being his own man," and "when 

He gets to be, what he '11 do then."— 

Takes out his jack-knife dreamily 

And makes the Folk-Child two or three 

Crude corn-stalk figures, — a wee span 

Of horses and a little man. 

The Hoosier Folk-Child's eyes are wise 

And wide and round as Brownies' eyes : 

The smile they wear is ever blent 

With all-expectant wonderment, — 

On homeliest things they bend a look 

As rapt as o'er a picture-book. 

And seem to ask, whate'er befall. 

The happy reason of it all : — 

Why grass is all so glad a green, 

And leaves — and what their lispings mean ; — 

Why buds grow on the boughs, and why 

They burst in blossom by and by — 

As though the orchard in the breeze 

Had shook and popped its popcorn-trees, 

To lure and whet, as well they might, 

Some seven-league giant's appetite! 



6o THE HOOSIER FOLK-CHILD. 

The Hoosier Folk-Child's chubby face 
Has scant refinement, caste or grace, — 
From crown to chin, and cheek to cheel-c, 
It bears the grimy water-streak 
Of rinsings such as some long rain 
Might drool across the window-pane 
Wherethrough he peers, with troubled frown, 
As some lorn team drives by for town. 
His brow is elfed with wispish hair. 
With tangles in it here and there. 
As though the warlocks snarled it so 
At midmirk when the moon sagged low. 
And boughs did toss and skreek and shake, 
And children moaned themselves awake, 
With fingers clutched, and starting sight 
Blind as the blackness of the night! 

The Hoosier Folk-Child !— Rich is he 

In all the wealth of poverty ! 

He owns nor title nor estate. 

Nor speech but half articulate, — 

He owns nor princely robe nor crown ; — 

Yet, draped in patched and faded brown. 

He owns the bird-songs of the hills— 

The laughter of the April rills ; 

And his are all the diamonds set 

In Morning's dewy coronet, — 



THE HOOSIER FOLK-CHILD. 6i 

And his the Dusk's first minted stars 
That twinlile through the pasture-bars, 
And litter all the skies at night 
With glittering scraps of silver light; — 
The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim, 
In beaten gold, belongs to him. 



62 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 



JACK, THE GIANT-KILLER. 

Bad Boys Version. 

•T^ELL you a story — an' it's a fac': — 
■■■ Wunst wuz a little boy, name wuz Jack, 
An' he had sword an' buckle an' strap 
Maked of gold, an' a " 'visibul cap ; " 
An' he killed Gi'nts 'at et whole cows- 
Th' horns an' all — an' pigs an' sows! 
But Jack, his golding sword wuz, oh! 
So awful sharp 'at he could go 
An' cut th' ole Gi'nts clean in two 
Fore 'ey knowed what he wuz goin' to do! 
An' one ole Gi'nt, he had four 
Heads, and name wuz " Bumblebore " — 
An' he wuz feered o' Jack — 'cause he, 
Jack, he killed six — five — ten— three, 
An' all o' th' uther ole Gi'nts but him : 
An' thay wuz a place Jack haf to swim 
'Fore he could git t' ole "Bumblebore" — 
Nen thay was "griffuns" at the door: 
But Jack, he thist plunged in an' swum 
Clean acrost ; an' when he come 



JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 63 

To th' uther side, he thist put on 
His " 'visibu! cap," an' nen, dog-gone! 
You could n't see liim at all ! — An' so 
He slewed the "griffuns" — boff, you know! 
Nen wuz a horn hunged over his head, 
High on th' wall, an' words 'at read, — 
'Whoever kin this trumput blow 
Shall cause the Gi'nt's overth'ow! " 
An' Jack, he thist reached up an' blowed 
The stuffin' out of it! an th'owed 
Th' castul-gates wide open, an' 
Nen tuck his gold sword in his han', 
An' thist marched in t' ole " Bumblebore," 
An', 'fore h'e knowed, he put 'bout four 
Heads on him — an' chopped 'em off, too! — 
Wisht 'at I'd been Jack!— don't you? 



64 IVHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED. 



WHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED. 

OIT was but a dream I had 
While the musician played !- 
And here the sky, and here the glad 

Old ocean kissed the glade — 
And here the laughing ripples ran, 

And here the roses grew 
That threw a kiss to every man 
That voyaged with the crew. 

Our silken sails in lazy folds 

Drooped in the breathless breeze: 
As o'er a field of marigolds 

Our eyes swam o'er the seas ; 
While here the eddies lisped and purled 

Around the island's rim, 
And up from out the underworld 

We saw the mermen swim. 

And it was dawn and middle-day 

And midnight — for the moon 
On silver rounds across the bay 

Had climbed the skies of June — 
And there the glowing, glorious king 

Of day ruled o'er his realm, 
With stars of midnight glittering 

About his diadem. 



IVHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED. 65 

The seagull reeled on languid wing 

In circles round the mast, 
We heard the songs the sirens sing 

As we went sailing past ; 
And up and down the golden sands 

A thousand fairy throngs 
Flung at us from their flashing hands 

The echoes of their songs. 

O it was but a dream 1 had 

While the musician played — 
For here the sky, and here the glad 

Old ocean kissed the glade ; 
And here the laughing ripples ran. 

And here the roses grew 
That threw a kiss to every man 

That voyaged with the crew. 



66 AUGUST. 



AUGUST. 

A DAY of torpor in the sullen heat 
Of Summer's passion : In the sluggish stream 
The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, 
With drowsy eyes, and dream. 

Long since the winds have died, and in the sky 
There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief ; 

The sun glares ever like an evil eye, 
And withers flower and leaf. 

Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote 
The thresher lies deserted, like some old 

Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat 
Upon a sea of gold. 

The yearning cry of some bewildered bird 
Above an empty nest, and truant boys 

Along the river's shady margin heard— 
A harmony of noise — 

A melody of wrangling voices blent 
With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls 

Of piping lips and trilling echoes sent 
To mimic waterfalls. 



AUGUST. 67 

And through the hazy veil the atmosphere 
Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, 

The sifted glances of the sun appear 
In splinterings of spray. 

The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, 
Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by, 

A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on 
His journey to the sky. 

And down across the valley's drooping sweep, 
Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade. 

The forest stands in silence, drinking deep 
Its purple wine of shade. 

The gossamer floats up on phantom wing ; 

The sailor-vision voyages the skies 
And carries into chaos everything 

That freights the weary eyes : 

Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat 
Increases — reaches— passes fever's height. 

And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, 
Within the arms of Night. 



68 TO HEAR HER SING. 



TO HEAR HER SING. 

TO hear her sing — to hear her sing- 
It is to hear the birds of Spring 
In dewy groves on blooming sprays 
Pour out their blithest roundelays. 

It is to hear the robin trill 

At morning, or the whip-poor-will 

At dusk, when stars are blossoming — 

To hear her sing — to hear her sing! 

To hear her sing — it is to hear 
The laugh of childhood ringing clear 
In woody path or grassy lane 
Our feet may never fare again. 

Faint, far away as Memoiy dwells, 

It is to hear the village bells 

At twiliglit, as the truant hears 

Them, hastening home, with smiles and te^rs. 

Such joy it is to hear her sing. 
We fall in love with everything — 
The simple things of every day 
Grow lovelier than words can say. 



TO HEAR HER SING. 69 

The idle brooks that purl across 
The gleaming pebbles and the moss, 
We love no less than classic streams — 
The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams. 

To hear her sing — with folded eyes, 
It is, beneath Venetian skies, 
To hear the gondoliers' refrain. 
Or troubadours of sunny Spain. — 

To hear the bulbul's voice that shook 
The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh ; 
What wonder we in homage bring 
Our hearts to her — to hear her sing! 



70 BEING HIS MOTHER. 



BEING HIS MOTHER. 

"DEING his mother, — ^when he goes away 
-^ I would not hold him overlong, and so 

Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O 
So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay 
To catch the faintest rumor of them ! Nay, 

Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although 

Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow; 
Let his remembered features, as I pray. 
Smile ever on me ! Ah ! what stress of love 

Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise: 

Its fullest speech ever to be denied 
Mine own— being his mother! All thereof 

Thou knowest only, looking from the skies 

As when not Christ alone was crucified. 



JUJ^E AT IVOODRUFF. 71 



JUNE AT WOODRUFF. 

OUT at Woodruff Place— afar 
From the city's glare and jar, 
With the leafy trees, instead 
Of the awnings, overhead ; 
With the shadows cool and sweet, 
For the fever of the street; 
With the silence, like a prayer. 
Breathing round us everywhere. 

Gracious anchorage, at last. 
From the billows of the vast 
Tide of life that comes and goes, 
Whence and where nobody knows- 
Moving, like a skeptic's thought. 
Out of nowhere into naught. 
Touch and tame us with thy grace, 
Placid calm of Woodruff Place ! 

Weave a wreath of beechen leaves 
For the brow that throbs and grieves 
O'er the ledger, bloody-lined, 
'Neath the sun-struck window-blind ! 
Send the breath of woodland bloom 
Through the sick man's prison room, 
Till his old farm-home shall swim 
Sweet in mind to hearten him ! 



72 JUNE AT WOODRUFF. 

Out at Woodruff Place the Muse 
Dips her sandal in the dews, 
Sacredly as night and dawn 
Baptize lilied grove and lawn : 
Woody path, or paven way — 
She doth haunt them night and day, — 
Sun or moonlight through the trees, 
To her eyes, are melodies. 

Swinging lanterns, twinkling clear 
Through night-scenes, are songs to her- 
Tinted lilts and choiring hues, 
Blent with children's glad halloos ; 
Then belated lays that fade 
Into midnight's serenade — 
Vine-like words and zithern-strings 
Twined through all her slumberings. 

Bless6d be each hearthstone set 
Neighboring the violet! 
Blessed every rooftree prayed 
Over by the beech's shade ! 
Blessed doorway, opening where 
We may look on Nature— there 
Hand to hand and face to face — 
Storied realm, or Woodruff Place. 



FARMER lVHIPPLE.—^ACHELOT{. 73 



FARMER WHIPPLE.— BACHELOR. 

I T 'S a mystery to see me — a man o' fifty-four, 

* Who 's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' 

and more — 
A-lookin' glad and smilin' ! And they 's none o' you 

can say — 
That you can guess the reason why I feel so good 

to-day ! 

I must tell you all about it ! But I '11 have to deviate 
A little in beginnin', so 's to set the matter straight 
As to how it comes to happen that 1 never took a 

Vv'ife — 
Kind o' " crawfish " from the Present to the Springtime 

of my life ! 

I was brought up in the country : Of a family of 

five — 
Three brothers and a sister — I 'm the only one alive, — 
Fer they all died little babies; and 'twas one o' 

Mother's ways, 
You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl to 

raise. 



74 FARMER IVHIPPLE.— 'BACHELOR 



The sweetest little thing she was, with rosy cheeks, 

and fat — 
We was little chunks o' shavers then about as high as 

that! 
But someway we sort o' suited-Uke: ! and Mother she 'd 

declare 
She never laid her eyes on a more lovin' pair 

Than we was ! So we growed up side by side fer 

thirteen year'. 
And every hour of it she growed to me more dear! — 
Wy? even Father's dyin', as he did, I do believe 
War n't more affectin' to me than it was to see her 

grieve ! 

I was then a lad o' twenty; and I felt a flash o' pride 
In thinkin' all depended on me now to pervide 
Fer Mother and fer Mary ; and I went about the place 
With sleeves rolled up— and workin', with a mighty 
smilin' face. — 

Fer sompin' else was workin' I but not a word I said 
Of a certain sort o' notion that was runnin' through 

my head, — 
" Someday I 'd mayby marry, and a brother's love was one 
Thing — a lover's was another!" was the way the notion 

run! 



FAT{MER lVHIPPLE.—^ACHELO% 75 

I remember onc't in harvest, when the " cradle-in' " was 

done — 
When the harvest of my summers mounted up to 

twenty-one — 
I was ridin' home with Mary at the closin' 0' the day — 
A-chawin' straws and thinkin', in a lover's lazy way ! 

And Mary's cheeks was burnin' like the sunset down 

the lane: 
1 noticed she was thinkin', too, and ast her to explain. 
Well — when she turned and kissed me, with her arms 

around me — law ! 
I 'd a bigger load 0' heaven than I had a load 0' straw ! 

1 don't p'tend to learnin', but I'll tell you what's a 

fac', 
They 's a mighty truthful sayin' somers in a' 

almanack — 
Er somers — 'bout "puore happiness" — perhaps some 

folks '11 laugh 
At the idy — " only lastin' jest two seconds and a 

half."— 

But its jest as true as preachin'!— fer that was a sister's 

kiss. 
And a sister's lovin' confidence a-tellin' to me this: — 



76 FAT{MER IVHlPPLE.—'BACHELOTi. 



" She was happy, iein' promised to the son o' farmer 

Brown.^'' — 
And my feelin's struck a pardnership with sunset and 

went down ! 

I don't know how I acted— I don't know what I said, 
Fer my heart seemed jest a-turnin' to an ice-cold lump 

o' lead; 
And the hosses kindo' glimmered before me in the road, 
And the lines fell from my fingers — and that was all I 

knowed — 

Fer — well, I do n't know how long— They 's a dim remem- 

berence 
Of a sound o' snortin' hosses, and a stake-and-ridered 

fence 
A-whizzin' past, and wheat-sheaves a-dancin' in the air, 
And Mary screamin' "Murder!" and a-runnin' up to 

where 

/ was layin' by the roadside, and the wagon upside 

down 
A-leanin' on the gate-post, with the wheels a whirlin' 

round ! 
And I tried to raise and meet her, but I couldn't, with 

a vague 
Sorto' notion comin' to me that I had a broken leg. 



FAT{MER WHIPPLE.— "BACHELOl^. 77 

Well, the women nussed me through it; but many a 

time I 'd sigh 
As I 'd keep a-gittin' better instid o' goin' to die, 
And wonder what was left me worth livin' fer below, 
When the girl I loved was married to another, don't 

you know! 

And my thoughts was as rebellious as the folks was 

good and kind 
When Brown and Mary married — Railly must a-been my 

mind 
Was kindo' out o' kilter ! — fer I hated Brown, you see, 
Worse'n pi^en — and the feller whittled crutches out fer 

me — 

And done a thousand little ac's o' kindness and 

respec' — 
And me a-wishin' all the time that I could break his 

neck ! 
My relief was like a mourner's v/hen the funeral is 

done 
When they moved to Illinois in the Fall o' Forty-one. 

Then I went to work in airnest — I had nothin' much in 

view 
But to drownd out rickollections — and It kep' me busy, 

too! 



78 FARMER lVHIPPLE.—TACHELO% 

But I slowly thrived and prospered, tel Mother used to 

say 
She expected yit to see me a wealthy man some day. 

Then I 'd think how little monef was, compared to 

happiness — 
And who 'd be left to use it when I died I could n 't 

guess ! 
But I 've still kep ' speculatin' and a-gainin' year by 

year, 
Tel I 'm payin' half the taxes in the county, mighty 

near! 

Well ! — A year ago er better, a letter comes to hand 
Astin' how I 'd like to dicker fer some Illinois land — 
" The feller that had owned it," it went ahead to state, 
"Had jest deceased, insolvent, leavin' chance to 
speculate," — ' 

And then it closed by sayin' that I 'd "better come and 

see," — 
I 'd never been West, anyhow — a most too wild fer me, 
I 'd alius had a notion ; but a lawyer here in town 
Said I 'd fmd myself mistakend when I come to look 

around. 



FARMER lVHIPPLE.—'BACHELO% 79 

So I bids good-bye to Mother, and I jumps aboard the 

train, 
A-thlnkin' what 1 'd bring her when I come back home 

again — 
And ef she 'd had an idy Miiat the present was to be, 
I think it's more 'n likely she'd a-went along with me! 

Cars is awful tejus ridin', fer all they go so fast! 
But finally they called out my stoppin'-place at last: 
And that night, at the tavern, I dreamp' I was a train 
O' cars, and sheered at sumpin', runnin' down a country 
lane! 

Well, in the mornln' airly — after huntin' up the man — 
The lawyer who was wantin' to swap the piece 0' land — 
We started fer the country ; and I ast the history 
Of tlie farm — its former owner — and so-forth, etcetery ! 

And — well — it was inter estin' — I su'prised him, I suppose, 
By the loud and frequent manner in which I blowed my 

nose ! — 
But his su'prise was greater, and it made him wonder 

more, 
When I kissed and hugged the widder when she met 

us at the door ! — 



8o FATiMER lVHIPPLE.—^ACHELOT{. 

It was Mary : They 's a feelin' a-hidin' down in here- 
of course I can 't explain it, ner ever make it clear. — 
It was with us in that meetin', I do n't want you to 

fergit ! 
And it makes me kind o' nervous when I think about 

it yit! 

I bought that farm, and deeded it, afore I left the town, 
With "title clear to mansions in the skies," to Mary 

Brown ! 
And fu'thermore, I took her and the childern — fer you 

see, 
They 'd never seed their Grandma — and I fetched 'em 

home with me. 

So now you 've got an idy why a man o' fifty-four. 
Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and 

more, 
Is a-lookin' glad and smilin' !— And I 've jest come into 

town 
To git a pair o' license fer to many Mary Brown, 



D/iJVN, NOON AND DEIVFALL. 8i 



DAWN, NOON AND DEWFALL. 



I. 

D 



AWN, noon and dewfall ! Bluebird and robin 
Up and at it airly, and the orchard-blossoms 
bobbin' ! 
Peekin' from the winder, half-awake, and wishin' 
I could go to sleep agin as well as go a-fishin' ! 

II. 

On the apern o' the dam, legs a-danglin' over. 
Drowsy-like with sound o' worter and the smell o' 

clover : 
Fish all out a visitin' — 'cept some dratted minnor! 
Yes, and mill shet down at last and hands is gone to 

dinner. 

III. 

Trompin' home acrost the fields : Lightnin'-bugs a 

blinkin' 
In the wheat like sparks o' things feller keeps a- 

thinkin' : — 
Mother waitin' supper, and the childern there to 

cherr me! 
And fiddle on the kitchen-wall a-jist a-eechin' fer me! 



82 NESSMUK. 



NESSMUK. 

I HAIL thee, Nessmuk, for the lofty tone 
Yet simple grace that marks thy poetry! 
True forester thou art, and still to be, 
Even in happier fields than thou hast known. 
Thus, in glad visions, glimpses am I shown 

Of groves delectable — "preserves" for thee — 
Ranged but by friends of thine — I name thee 
three : — 
First, Chaucer, with his bald old pate new-grown 
With changeless laurel; next, in Lincoln-green, 
Gold-belted, bowed and bugled, Robin Hood; 
And next, Ike Walton, patient and serene: 
These three, O Nessmuk, gathered hunter-wise. 
Are camped on hither slopes of Paradise 

To hail thee first and greet thee, as they should. 



AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY. 83 



AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY. 

I 'VE thought a power on men and things, 

■■• As my uncle ust to say, — 

And ef folks don't work as they pray, i jings ! 

W'y» they ain't no use to pray! 
Ef you want somepin', and jes dead-set 
A-pleadin' fer it with both eyes wet. 
And tears won't bring it, w'y, you try sweat, 

As my uncle ust to say. 

They 's some don't know their A, B, Cs, 

As my uncle ust to say, 
And yit don't waste no candle-grease, 

Ner whistle their lives away! 
But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme 
No ringin' song fer to last all time. 
They can blaze the way fer the march sublime, 

As my uncle ust to say. 

Whoever 's Foreman of all things here. 

As my uncle ust to say, 
He knows each job 'at we 're best fit fer, 

And our round-up, night and day : 
And a-sizin' His work, east and west, 
And north and south, and worst and best 
I ain't got nothin' to suggest. 

As my uncle ust to say. 



84 THE SINGER. 



THE SINGER. 

■\1 7HILE with Ambition's hectic flame 

' * He wastes the midnight oil, 
And dreams, high-throned on heights of fame, 
To rest him from his toil, — 

Death's Angel, like a vast eclipse, 

Above him spreads her wings, 
And fans the embers of his lips 

To ashes as he sings. 



A FULL HARVEST. 85 



A FULL HARVEST. 

SEEMS like a feller 'd ort '0 jes' to-day- 
Git down and roll and waller, don't you know, 

In that-air stubble, and flop up and crow, 
Seein' sich craps ! I '11 undertake to say 
There 're no wheat 's ever turned out thataway 

Afore this season .'—Folks is keerless tho', 

And too fergitful — 'caze we 'd ort '0 show 
More thankfulness !— Jes' looky hyonder, hey?— 

And watch that little reaper wadin' thue 
That last old yaller hunk 0' harvest-ground — 

Jes' natchur'ly a-slicin' it in-two 
Like honey-comb, and gaumin' it around 

The field — like it had nothin' else to do 

On'y jes' waste it all on me and you ! 



BUND. 



BLIND. 

"W'OU think it is a sorry thing 

* That I am blind. Your pitying 
Is welcome to me; yet indeed, 
1 think I have but little need 
Of it. Though you may marvel much 
That we, who see by sense of touch 
And taste and hearing, see things you 
May never look upon ; and true 
Is it that even in the scent 
Of blossoms we find something meant 
No eyes have in their faces read, 
Or wept to see interpreted. 

And you might think it strange if now 

I told you you were smiling. How 

Do I know that? I hold your hand — 

Its language I can understand — 

Give both to me, and I will show 

You many other things I know. 

Listen : We never met before 

Till now? — Well, you are something lower 

Than five-feet-eight in height; and you 

Are slender; and your eyes are blue — 



BUND. 87 

Your mother's eyes — your mother's hair — 
Your mother's likeness everywhere 
Save in your walk — and that is quite 
Your father's; nervous. — ^Am I right? 
I thought so. And you used to sing, 
But have neglected everything 
Of vocalism — though you may 
Still thrum on the guitar, and play 
A little on the violin, — 
I know that by the callous in 
The finger-tips of your left hand — 
And, by-the-bye, though nature planned 
You as most men, you are, I see, 
"Z.^/^handed," too, — the mystery 
Is clear, though, — your right arm has been 
Broken, to " break " the left one in. 
And so, you see, though blind of sight, 
I still have ways of seeing quite 
Too well for you to sympathize 
Excessively, with your good eyes. — 
Though once, perhaps, to be sincere, 
Within the whole asylum here, 
From cupola to basement hall, 
I was the blindest of them all ! 

Let us move further down the walk — 
The man here waiting hears my talk, 



BLWD. 

And is disturbed; besides, ht may 
Not be quite friendly anyway. 
In fact — (this will be far enough ; 
Sit down) — the man just spoken of 
Was once a friend of mine. He came 
For treatment here from Burlingame — 
A rich though brilliant student there, 
Who read his eyes out of repair. 
And groped his way up here, where we 
Became acquainted, and where he 
Met one of our girl-teachers, and. 
If you '11 believe me, asked her hand 
In marriage, though the girl was blind 
As I am — and the girl declined. 
Odd, wasn't it? Look, you can see 
Him waiting there. Fine, isn't he? 
And handsome, eloquently wide 
And high of brow, and dignified 
With every outward grace, his sight 
Restored to him, clear and bright 
As day-dawn ; waiting, v/aiting still 
For the blind girl that never will 
Be wife of his. How do I know? 
You will recall a while ago 
I told you he and I were friends. 
In all that friendship comprehends, 



BLWD. 89 

I was his friend, I swear! why now, 

Remembering his love, and how 

His confidence was all my own, 

I hear, in fancy, the low tone 

Of his deep voice, so full of pride 

And passion, yet so pacified 

With his affliction, that it seems 

An utterance sent out of dreams 

Of saddest melody, withal 

So sorrowfully musical 

It was, and is, must ever be — 

But I'm digressing, pardon me. 

/ knew not anything of love 

In those days, but of that above 

All worldly passion, — for my art — 

Music, — and that, with all my heart 

And soul, blent in a love too great 

For words of mine to estimate. 

And though among my pupils she 

Whose love my friend sought came to me 

I only knew her fingers' touch 

Because they loitered overmuch 

In simple scales, and needs must be 

Untangled almost constantly. 

But she was bright in other ways, 

And quick of thought ; with ready plays 



90 BLIND. 

Of wit, and with a voice as sweet 

To listen to as one miglit meet 

In any oratorio — 

And once I gravely told her so,— 

And, at my words, her limpid tone 

Of laughter faltered to a moan, 

And fell from that into a sigh | 

That quavered all so wearily, '^ 

That I, without the tear that crept \ 

Between the keys, had known she wept; ' 

And yet the hand I reached for then 

She caught away, and laughed again. 

And when that evening I strolled 

With my old friend, I, smiling, told 

Him I believed the girl and he 

Were matched and mated perfectly: 

He was so noble ; she, so fair 

Of speech, and womanly of air; 

He, strong, ambitious ; she, as mild 

And artless even as a child ; 

And with a nature, I was sure. 

As worshipful as it was pure 

And sweet, and brimmed with tender things 

Beyond his rarest fancyings. 

He stopped me solemnly. He knew. 

He said, how good, and just, and true 



BLMD. 91 

Was all I said of her; but as 

For his own virtues, let them pass, 

Since they were nothing to the one 

That he had set his heart upon ; 

For but that morning she had turned 

Forever from him. Then I learned 

That for a month he had delayed 

His going from us, with no aid 

Of hope to hold him,— meeting still 

Her ever firm denial, till 

Not even in his new-found sight 

He found one comfort or delight. 

And as his voice broke there, I felt 

The brother-heart within me melt 

In warm compassion for his own 

That throbbed so utterly alone. 

And then a sudden fancy hit 

Along my brain ; and coupling it 

With a belief that I, indeed. 

Might help my friend in his great need, 

I warmly said that I would go 

Myself, if he decided so. 

And see her for him — that I knew 

My pleadings would be listened to 

Most seriously, and that she 

Should love him, listening to me. 



92 BLIND. 

Go ; bless me ! And that was the last — 
The last time his warm hand shut fast 
Within my own — so empty since, 
That the remembered finger-prints 
I 've kissed a thousand times, and wet 
Them with the tears of all regret! 

I know not how to rightly tell 

How fared my quest, and what befell 

Me, coming in the presence of 

That blind girl, and her blinder love. 

I know but little else than that 

Above the chair in which she sat 

I leant — reached for, and found her hand, 

And held it for a moment, and 

Took up the other — held them both — 

As might a friend, I will take oath : 

Spoke leisurely, as might a man 

Praying for no thing other than 

He thinks Heaven's justice: — She was blind, 

I said, and yet a noble mind 

Most truly loved her ; one whose fond 

Clear-sighted vision looked beyond 

The bounds of her infirmity, 

And saw the woman, perfectly 

Modeled, and wrought out pure and true 

And lovable. She quailed, and drew 



BUND. 93 

Her hands away, but closer still 
I caught them. "Rack me as you will!" 
She cried out sharply — " Call me ' blind ' — 
Love ever is — I am resigned ! 
Blind is your friend ; as blind as he 
Am I — but blindest of the three — 
Yea, blind as death — you will not see 
My love for you is killing me!" 

There is a memory that may 
Not ever wholly fade away 
From out my heart, so bright and fair 
The light of it still glimmers there. 
Why, it did seem as though my sight 
Flamed back upon me, dazzling white 
And godlike. Not one other word 
Of hers I listened for or heard, 
But I saw songs sung in her eyes 
Till they did swoon up drowning-wise, 
As my mad lips did strike her own 
And we flashed one and one alone! 
Ah ! was it treachery for me 
To kneel there, drinking eagerly 
That torrent-flow of words that swept 
Out laughingly the tears she wept? — 



94 BLIND. 

Sweet words ! O sweeter far, maybe, 
Than light of day to those that see, — 
God knows, who did the rapture send 
To me, and hold it from my friend. 

And we were married half a year 
Ago, — and he is — waiting here. 
Heedless of that — or anything, 
But just that he is lingering 
To say good-bye to her, and bow — 
As you my see him doing now, — 
For there's her footstep in the hall ; 
God bless her ! — help him ! — save us all ! 



RIGHT HERE AT HOME. 95 



^ RIGHT HERE AT HOME. 

RIGHT here at home, boys, hi old Hoosierdom, 
Where strangers aUus joke us when they come, 
And brag 0' their old States and interprize — 
Yit settle here ; and 'fore they realize, 
They're "hoosier" as the rest of us, and live 
Right here at home, boys, with their past fergive'! 

Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess, 
Fer me and you and plain old happiness: 
We hear the World 's lots grander — likely so, — 
We '11 take the World 's word fer it and not go. — 
We know its ways aint our ways — so we '11 stay 
Right here at home, boys, where we know the way. 

Right here at home, boys, where a well-to-do 
Man 's plenty rich enough — and knows it, too, 
And's got a' extry dollar, any time, 
To boost a feller up 'at wants to climb 
And 's got the git-up in him to go in 
And git there, like he purt'- nigh alius kin ! 



96 RIGHT HERE AT HOME. 

Right here at home, boys, is the place fer us! — 

Where folks' heart's bigger 'n their money-pu's'; 

And where a common feller 's jes as good 

As ary other in the neighberhood : 

The World at large don't worry you and me 

Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be ! 

Right here at home, boys — jes right where we air!— 
Birds do n't sing any sweeter anywhere : 
Grass don't grow any greener 'n she grows 
Acrost the pastur* where the old path goes, — 
All things in ear-shot 's purty, er in sight, 
Right here at home, boys, ef we si^e 'em right. 

Right here at home, boys, where the old home-place 

Is sacerd to us as our mother's face, 

Jes as we rictcollect her, last she smiled 

And kissed us — dyin' so and rickonciled, 

Seein' us all at home here — none astray — 

Right here at home, boys, where she sleeps to-day. 



THE LITTLE FAT DOCTOR. 97 



THE LITTLE FAT DOCTOR. 

T T E seemed so strange to me, every way — 
^ •*■ In manner, and form, and size, 
From the boy I knew but yesterday, — 
I could hardly believe my eyes ! 

To hear his name called over there, 

My memory thrilled with glee 
And leaped to picture him young and fair 

In youth, as he used to be. 

But looking, only as glad eyes can, 

For the boy I knew of yore, 
I smiled on a portly little man 

I had never seen before! — 

Grave as a judge in courtliness — 

Professor-like and bland — 
A little fat doctor and nothing less, 

With his hat in his kimboed hand. 

But how we talked old times, and " chaffed " 
Each other with "Minnie" and "Jim"— 

And how the little fat doctor laughed. 
And how I laughed with him ! 



THE LITTLE FAT DOCTOR. 



'And it's pleasant," I thought, "though I yearn 
to see 

The face of the youth that was, 
To know no boy could smile on me 

As the little fat doctor does!" 



THE SHOEMAKER. 99 



THE SHOEMAKER. 

T^HOU Poet, who, like any lark, 

* Dost whet thy beak and trill 

From misty morn till murky dark, 

Nor ever pipe thy fill: 
Hast thou not, in thy cheery note. 

One poor chirp to confer — 
One verseful twitter to devote 

Unto the Shoe-ma-ker? 

At early dawn he doth peg in 

His noble work and brave ; 
And eke from cark and wordly sin 

He seeketh soles to save ; 
And all day long, with quip and song, 

Thus stitcheth he the way 
Our feet may know the right from wrong, 

Nor ever go a stray. 

Soak kip in mind the Shoe-ma-ker, 

Nor slight his lasting fame: 
Alway he waxeth tenderer 

In warmth of our acclaim ; — 
Aye, more, than any artisan 

We glory in his art 
Who ne'er, to help the under man, 

Neglects the upper part. 



THE SHOEMAKER. 



But toe the mark for him, and heel 
Respond to thee in kine — 

Or kid — or calf, shouldst thou reveal 
A taste so superfine : 

Thus let him jest — join in his laugh — 
Draw on his stock, and be 

A shoer'd there's no rival half- 
Sole liberal as he. 

Then, Poet, hail the Shoe-ma-ker 

For all his goodly deeds, — 
Yea, bless him free for booting thee- 

The first of all thy needs! 
And when at last his eyes grow dim. 

And nerveless drops his clamp, 
In golden shoon pray think of him 

Upon his latest tramp. 



THE OLD RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN. loi 



THE OLD RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN. 

nPHE old sea captain has sailed the seas 
^ So long, that the waves at mirth, 
Or the waves gone wild, and the crests of these, 

Were as near playmates from birth : 
He has loved both the storm and the calm, because 

They seemed as his brothers twain, — 
The flapping sail was his soul's applause, 

And his rapture, the roaring main. 

But now — like a battered hulk seems he, 

Cast high on a foreign strand, 
Though he feels " in port," as it need must be. 

And the stay of a daughter's hand — 
Yet ever the round of the listless hours, — 

His pipe, in the languid air — 
The grass, the trees, and the garden flowers. 

And the strange earth everywhere! 

And so betimes he is restless here 

In this little inland town. 
With never a wing in the atmosphere 

But the wind-mill's, up and down ; 
His daughter's home in this peaceful vale. 

And his grandchild 'twixt his knees — 
But never the hail of a passing sail. 

Nor the surge of the angry seas ! 



D2 THE OLD RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN. 

He quits his pipe, and he snaps its necl< — 

Would speal<, though he coughs instead, 
Then paces the porch like a quarter-deck 

With a reeling mast o'erhead ! 
Ho ! the old sea captain's cheeks glow warm, 

And his eyes gleam grim and weird, 
As he mutters about, like a thunder-storm. 

In the cloud of his beetling beard. 



ROBERT BURNS IVILSON. 103 



ROBERT BURNS WILSON. 

WHAT intuition named thee? — Through what 
thrill 
Of the awed soul came the command divine 
Into the mother-heart, foretelling thine 
Should palpitate with his whose raptures will 
Sing on while daisies bloom and lavrocks trill 
There undulating ways up through the fine 
Fair mists of heavenly reaches? Thy pure line 
Falls as the dew of anthems, quiring still 
The sweeter since the Scottish singer raised 
His voice therein, and, quit of every stress 
Of earthly ache and longing and despair. 
Knew certainly each simple thing he praised 
Was no less worthy, for its lowliness, 
Than any joy of all the glory There. 



I04 TO THE SERENA DER. 



TO THE SERENADER. 

TWINKLE on, O sweet guitar, 
* Let the dancing fingers 
Loiter where the low notes are 

Blended with the singer's : 
Let the midnight pour the moon's 

Mellow wine of glory- 
Down upon him through the tune's 

Old romantic story! 

I am listening, my love, 

Through the cautious lattice, 
Wondering why the stars above 

All are blinking at us ; 
Wondering if his eyes from there 

Catch the moonbeam's shimmer 
As it lights the robe I wear 

With a ghostly glimmer. 

Lilt thy song, and lute away 

In the wildest fashion : — 
Pour thy rippling roundelay 

O'er the heights of passion ! — 
Flash it down the fretted strings 

Till thy mad lips, missing 
All but smothered whisperings, 

Press this rose I 'm kissing. 



THE WIFE-BLESSED. 105 



THE WIFE-BLESSED. 

I. 

IN youth he wrought, with eyes abhir, 
Lorn-faced and long of hair- 
In youth — in youth he painted her 

A sister of the air — 
Cculd clasp her not, but felt the stir 
Of pinions everywhere. 

II. 

She lured his gaze, in braver days, 

And tranced him sirenwise ; 
And he did paint her, through a haze 

Of sullen paradise. 
With scars of kisses on her face 

And embers in her eyes. 

III. 

And now — nor dream nor wild conceit- 
Though faltering, as before — 

Through tears he paints her, as is meet. 
Tracing the dear face o'er 

With lilied patience meek and sweet 
As Mother Mary wore. 



io6 SISTER JONES'S CONFESSION. 



SISTER JONES'S CONFESSION. 
\ 

T THOUGHT the deacon liked me, yit 

*■ I warn't adzackly shore of it — 

Fer, mind ye, time and time agin, 

When jiners 'ud be comin' in, 

I 'd seed him shal<[in' hands as free 

With all the sistern as with me! 

But jurin' last Revival, where 

He called on me to lead in prayer. 

An' kneeled there with me, side by side, 

A-whisper'n' "he felt sanctified 

Jes' tetchin of my gyarment's hem," — 

That settled things as fur as them- 

Thare othe?' wimmin was concerned! — • 

And — well!— I know I must a-turned 

A dozen colors ! — Flurried ? — la ! — 

No mortal sinner never saw 

A gladder widder than the one 

A-kneelin' there and wonderun' 

Who 'd pray !— So glad, upon my word, 

1 railly could n't thank the Lord ! 



THE CURSE OF THE IVANDERWG FOOT. 107 



THE CURSE OF THE WANDERING FOOT. 

A LL hope of rest withdrawn me? — 
^~^ What dread command hath put 
This awful curse upon me — 

The curse of the wandering foot! 
Forward and backward and thither, 

And hither and yon again- 
Wandering ever! And whither? 

Answer them, God ! Amen. 

The blue skies are far o'er me— 

The bleak fields near below: 
Where the mother that bore me? — 

Where her grave in the snow? — 
Glad in her trough of a coffin — 

The sad eyes frozen shut 
That wept so often, often. 

The curse of the wandering foot! 

Here in your marts I care not 

Whatsoever ye think. 
Good folk many who dare not 

Give me to eat and drink : 
Give me to sup of your pity — 

Feast me on prayers ! — O ye, 
Met I your Christ in the city 

He would fare forth with me— 



io8 THE CURSE OF THE JVANDERING FOOT. 

Forward and onward and thither, 

And hither again and yon, 
With milk for our drinl< together 

And honey to feed upon— 
Nor hope of rest withdrawn us, 

Since the one Father put 
The blessed curse upon us — 

The curse of the wandering foot 



A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIERS. 109 



A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIERS. 

A MONUMENT for the Soldiers! 
And what will ye build it of? 
Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze, 

Outlasting the Soldiers' love? 
Can ye glorify it with legends 

As grand as their blood hath writ 
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine 
To the outermost verge of it? 

And the answer came : We would build it 

Out of our hopes made sure, 
And out of our purest prayers and tears, 

And out of our faith secure : 
We would build it out of the great white truths 

Their death hath sanctified. 
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms, 

And their faces ere they died. 

And what heroic figures 

Can the sculptor carve in stone? 
Can the marble breast be made to bleed, 

And the marble lips to moan? 
Can the marble brow be fevered? 

And the marble eyes be graved 
To look their last, as the flag floats past. 

On the country they have saved? 



A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIERS. 

And the answer came : The figures 

Shall all be fair and brave, 
And, as befitting, as pure and white 

As the stars above their grave! 
The marble lips, and breast and brow 

Whereon the laurel lies, 
Bequeath us right to guard the flight 

Of the old flag in the skies ! 

A monument for the Soldiers ! 

Built of a people's love, 
And blazoned and decked and panoplied 

With the hearts ye build it of! 
And see that ye build it stately. 

In pillar and niche and gate, 
And high in pose as the souls of those 

It would commemorate! 



i 



THE RIVAL. 



THE RIVAL. 



ISO loved once, when Death came by I hid 
Away my face, 
And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid 
To make my hiding-place. 

The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; and 

I turned me then 
To calm my love — kiss down her shielding hand 

And comfort her again. 

And lo! she answered not: And she did sit 

All fixedly. 
With her fair face and the sweet smile of it. 

In love with Death, not me. 



IRY AND BILLY AND JO. 



IRY AND BILLY AND JO. 

TRY an' Billy an' Jo !— 
•I Iry an' Billy's the bqys, 

An' Jo's their dog, you know, — 
Their pictur 's took all in a row. 

Bet they kin kick up a noise — 

Iry and Billy, the boys. 
And that-air little dog Jo ! 

Irf's the one 'at stands 

Up there a-lookin' so mild 
An' meek — with his hat in his hands, 

Like such a 'bediant child — 
{Sakes-alive !) — An' Billf he sets 
In the cheer an' holds onto Jo an' sweats 
Hisse'f, a-lookin' so good ! Ho-ho ! 
Iry an' Billy an' Jo! 

Yit the way them boys, you know, 

Usen to jes turn in 
An' fight over that dog Jo 

Wuz a burnin'-shame-an'-a-sin ! — 



IR Y AND BILL Y AND JO. 113 

Iry he V argy 'at, by gee-whizz ! 
That-air little Jo-dog wuz his! — 
An' Billy he^d claim it wuzn't so — 
'Cause the dog wuz his'n\ — An' at it they'd go, 
Nip-an'-tugg, tooth-an'-toenail, you know — 
Iry an' Billy an' Jo ! 

But their Pa — (He wuz the marshal then)- 

He 'tended-like 'at he jerked 'em up; 
An' got a jury 0' Brickyard men 
An' helt a trial about the pup : 
An' he says he jes like to a-died 
When the rest 0' us town-boys testified — 
Regardin', you know, 
Iry an' Billy an' Jo. — 

'Cause we all knowed, when the Gjypsies they 

Camped down here by the crick last Fall, 
They brung Jo with 'em, an' give him away 

To Iry an' Billy fer nothin' at all ! — 
So the jury fetched in the verdick so 

Jo he ain't neether 0' theirn fer shore — 

He's both their dog, an' jes no more! 

An' so 

They 've quit quarrelin' long ago, 

Iry an' Billy an' Jo. 



114 A WRAITH OF SUMMERTIME. 



A WRAITH OF SUMMERTIME. 

IN its color, shade and shine, 
'T was a summer warm as wine, 
With an effervescent flavoring of flowered 

bough and vine, 
And a fragrance and a taste 
Of ripe roses gone to waste, 
And a dreamy sense of sun- and moon- and 
star-light interlaced. 

'Twas a summer such as broods 

O'er enchanted solitudes, 

Where the hand of Fancy leads us through 

voluptuary moods, 
And with lavish love out-pours 
All the wealth of out-of-doors, 
And woos our feet o'er velvet paths and 

honeysuckle floors. 

'Twas a summertime long dead, — 

And its roses, white and red. 

And its reeds and water-lilies down along 

the river-bed, — 
O they all are ghostly things — 
For the ripple never sings, 
And the rocking lily never even rustles as 

it rings! 



HER BEAUTIFUL EYES. 115 



^ HER BEAUTIFUL EYES. 

OHER beautiful eyes ! they are as blue as the dew 
On the violet's bloom when the morning is new, 
And the light of their love is the gleam of the sun 
O'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows 

run : 
As the morn shifts the mists and the clouds from the 

skies — 
So I stand in the dawn, of her beautiful eyes. 

And her beautiful eyes are as midday to me, 
When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee, 
And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat, 
And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweet 
And delirious breaths of the air's lullabies — 
So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes. 

O her beautiful eyes ! they have smitten mine own 
As a glory glanced down from the glare of The Throne ; 
And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afar 
Fell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star, 
And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise — 
So I grope through the night of her beautiful eyes. 



ir6 DOT LEEDLE BOY. 



DOT LEEDLE BOY. 

OT 'S a leedle Ghristmas story 
Dot I told der leedle folks— 
Und I vant you stop dot laughin' 

Und grackin' funny jokes! — 
So-help me Peter-Moses ! 

Ot 's no time for monkeyshlne', 
Ober I vas told you somedings 
Of dot leedle boy of mine! 

Ot vas von cold Vinter vedder, 

Ven der snow vas all about — 
Dot you have to chop der hatchet 

Eef you got der saur kraut! 
Und der cheekens on der hind-leg 

Vas standin' in der shine 
Der sun shmile out dot morning 

On dot leedle boy of mine. 

He vas yoost a leedle baby 

Not bigger as a doll 
Dot time I got acquaintet — 

Ach ! you ought to heard Mm squall !- 
I grackys ! dot 's der moosic 

Ot make me feel so fine 
Ven first I vas been marriet — 

Oh, dot leedle boy of mine! 



i 



DOT LEEDLE BOY. 117 

He look' yoost like his fader ! — 

So, veil der vimmen said 
"Vot a purty leedle baby!" 

Katrina' shake der head. . . . 
I dink she must a-notice 

Dot der baby vas a-gryin', 
Und she cover up der blankets 

Of dot leedle boy of mine. 

Vel, ven he vas got bigger, 

Dot he grawl und bump his nose, 
Und make der table over, 

Und molasses on his glothes — 
Dot make Mm all der sveeter, — 

So I say to my Katrine 
" Better you vas quit a-shpankin' 

Dot leedle boy of mine ! " 

I vish you could a-seen id — 

Ven he glimb up on der chair 
Und shmash der lookin'glasses 

Ven he try to comb his hair 
Mit a hammer! — Und Katrina 

Say "Dot's an ugly sign!" 
But 1 laugh und vink my fingers 

At dot leedle boy of mine. 



ii8 DOT LEEDLE BOY. 

But vonce, dot Vinter morning, 

He shlip out in der snow 
Mitout no stockin's on 'im. — 

He say he "vant to go 
Und fly some mit der birdies ! " 

Und ve give 'im medi-cine 
Van he catch der "parrygoric"— 

Dot leedle boy of mine ! 

Und so I set und nurse 'im, 

Vile der Christmas vas come roun', 
Und I told 'im 'bout " Kriss Kringle," 

How he come der chimbly down : 
Und I ask 'im eef he love 'im 

Eef he bring 'im someding fine? 
^'Nicht hesser as mein fader ^^ 

Say dot leedle boy of mine. — 

Und he put his arms aroun' me 

Und hug so close und tight, 
I hear der gclock a-tickin' 

All der balance of der night! . . . 
Someding make me feel so funny 

Ven I say to my Katrine 
*' Let us go und fill der stockin's 

Of dot leedle boy of mine." 



DOT LEEDLE BOY. iig 

Veil. — Ve buyed a leedle horses 

Dot you pull 'im mit a shtring, 
Und a leedle fancy jay-bird — 

Eef you vant to hear 'im sing 
You took 'im by der top-knot 

Und yoost blow in behine — 
Und dot make much spectakel — 

For dot leedle boy of mine ! 

Und gandies, nuts and raizens — 

Unt I buy a leedle drum 
Dot I vant to hear 'im rattle 

Ven der Gristmas morning come ! 
Und a leedle shmall tin rooster 

Dot vould crow so loud und fine 
Ven he sqveeze 'im in der morning, 

Dot leedle boy of mine ! 

Und— vile ve vas a-fixin' — 

Dot leedle boy vake out ! 
I fought he been a-dreamin' 

" Kriss Kringle " vas about, — 
For he say — '''Dot's him! — I see 'tm 

Mit der shtars dot make der shine!'' 
Und he yoost keep on a-gryin' — 

Dot leedle boy of mine, — 



DOT LEEDLE BOY. 



Und gottin' vorse und vorser — 

Und tumble on der bed ! 
So — van der doctor seen id, 

He kindo' shake his head, 
Und feel his pulse — und visper 

"Der boy is a-dyin'." 
You dink I could ielieve id? — 

Dot leedle hoy of mine ? 

1 told you, friends — dot 's someding, 

Der last time dot he speak 
Und say "Goot-bye, Kriss Krtngle ! " 

— Dot make me feel so veak 
I yoost kneel down und drimble, 

Und bur-sed out a-gryin' 
' ' Meiii Gott, mein Gott im Himmel ! — 

Dot leedle boy of mine ! ' ' 

Der sun do n't shine dot Gristmas ! 

. . . Eef dot leedle boy vould liff^d- 
No deefer-en' ! for Heaven vas 

His leedle Gristmas-gift! . . . 
Und der rooster, und der gandy, 

Und me — und my Katrine — 
Und der jay-bird — is a-vaiting 

For dot leedle boy of mine. 



DONN PUTT OF MAC-0-CHEE. 



DONN PIATT OF MAC-O-CHEE. 

I. 

DONN Piatt— of Mac-o-chee — 
Not the one of History, 
Wlio, witli flaming tongue and pen, 
Scatlies thie vanities of men ; 
Not tlie one wliose biting wit 
Cuts pretense and etclies it 
On tlie brazen brow tliat dares 
Filcli tlie laurel thiat it wears : 
Not the Donn Piatt whose praise 
Echoes in the noisy ways 
Of the faction, onward led 
By the statesman ! — But, instead, 
Give the simple man to me, — 
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee ! 

II. 

Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! 
Branches of the old oak tree. 
Drape him royally in fine 
Purple shade and golden shine ! 



1 



DONN PUTT OF MAC-O-CHEE. 



Emerald plush of sloping lawn % 

Be the throne he sits upon ! 

And, O Summer sunset, thou 

Be his crown, and gild a brow 

Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed 

By the breezes, mellow-palmed 

As Erata's white hand agleam 

On the forehead of a dream. — 

So forever rule o'er me, 

Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee ! ' 

III. 

Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee: 

Through a lilied memory 

Plays the wayward little creek ; 

Round thy home at hide-and-seek — 

As I see and hear it, still 

Romping round the wooded hill, 

Till its laugh-and-babble blends 

With the silence while it sends 

Glances back to kiss the sight, 

In its babyish delight. 

Ere it strays amid the gloom 

Of the glens that burst in bloom 

Of the rarest rhyme for thee, 

Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! 



{ 



DONN PIATT OF MAC-O-CHEE. 123 

IV. 

Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee ! 
What a darling destiny 
Has been mine — to meet him there — 
Lolling in an easy chair 
On the terrace, while he told 
Reminiscences of old — 
Letting my cigar die out, 
Hearing poems talked about; 
And entranced to hear him say 
Gentle things of Thackeray, 
Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest, 
Known to him as host and guest — 
Known to him as he to me — 
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! 



124 THEM FLOIVERS. 



THEM FLOWERS. 

T^AKE a feller 'at 's sick and laid up on the shelf, 
■*■ All shaky, and ga'nted, and pore— 
Jes ail so knocked out he can 't handle hisself 

With a stiff upper-lip any more; 
Shet him up all alone in the gloom of a room 

As dark as the tomb, and as grim. 
And then take and send him some roses in bloom. 

And you can have fun out o' him ! 

You 've ketched him 'fore now — when his liver 
was sound 

And his appetite notched like a saw — 
A-mockin' you, mayby, fer romancin' round 

With a big posy-bunch in yer paw ; 
But you ketch him, say, when his health is away. 

And he 's flat on his back in distress. 
And then you kin trot out yer little bokay 

And not be insulted, I guess ! 

You see, it's like this, what his weaknesses is, — 
Them flowers makes him think of the days 

Of his innocent youth, and that mother o' his, 
And the roses that she us't to raise :— 



THEM FLOIVERS. 125 



So here, all alone with the* roses you send — 
Bein' sick and all trimbly and faint, — 

My eyes is — my eyes is — my eyes is — old friend — 
Is a-leakin' — 1 'm blamed ef they ain't! 



126 THE QUIET LODGER. 

THE QUIET LODGER. 1 

T^HE man that rooms next door to me: 
* Two weeks ago, this very night, 
He took possession quietly, 
As any other lodger might— 
But why the room next mine should so 
Attract him I was vexed to know, — 
Because his quietude, in fine. 
Was far superior to mine. 

"Now, 1 like quiet, truth to tell, 
A tranquil life is sweet to me — 
But this," I sneered, "suits me too well.— 
He shuts his door so noiselessly. 
And glides about so very mute, 
In each mysterious pursuit, 
His silence is oppressive, and 
Too deep for me to understand." 

Sometimes, forgetting book or pen, 

I 've found my head in breathless poise 
Lifted, and dropped in shame again, 
Hearing some alien ghost of noise — 
Some smothered sound that seemed to be 
A trunk-lid dropped unguardedly. 
Or the crisp writhings of some quire 
Of manuscript thrust in the fire. 



THE QUIET LODGER. 127 

Then I have climbed, and closed in vain 

My transom, opening in the hall ; 
Or close against tlie window-pane 
Have pressed my fevered face, — but all 
The day or night without held not 
A sight or sound or counter-thought 
To set my mind one instant free 
Of this man's silent mastery. 

And often I have paced the floor 

With muttering anger, far at night, 
Hearing, and cursing, o'er and o'er, 
The muffled noises, and the light 
And tireless movements of this guest 
Whose silence raged above my rest 
Hoarser than howling storms at sea— 
The man that rooms next door to me. 

But twice or thrice, upon the stair, 

I 've seen his face — most strangely wan, — 
Each time upon me unaware 
He came — smooth'd past me, and was gone. — 
So like a whisper he went by, 
I listened after, ear and eye, 
Nor could my chafing fancy tell 
The meaning of one syllable. 



128 THE QUIET LODGER. 

Last night I caught him, face to face, — 

He entering his room, and I 
Glaring from mine: He paused a space 
And met my scowl all shrinkingly, 
But with full gentleness : The key 
Turned in his door — and I could see 
It tremblingly withdrawn and put 
Inside, and then — the door was shut. 

Then silence. Silence! — why, last night 

The silence was tumultuous. 
And thundered on till broad daylight; — 
O never has it stunned me thus! — 
It rolls, and moans, and mumbles yet. — 
Ah, God ! how loud may silence get 
When man mocks at a brother man 
Who answers but as silence can ! 

The silence grew, and grew, and grew, 
Till at high noon to-day 'twas heard 
Throughout the house ; and men flocked through 
The echoing halls, with faces blurred 
With pallor, gloom, and fear, and awe. 
And shuddering at what they saw — 
The quiet lodger, as he lay 
Stark of the life he cast away. 



I 



^ 



THE QUIET LODGER. 129 

So strange to-night — those voices there, 

Where all so quiet was before : ^ 
They say the face has not a care 
Nor sorrow in it any more — 
His latest scrawl : — " Forgive me — You 
Who prayed, ' they know not what they do ! ' " 
My tears will never let me see 
This man that rooms next door to me! 



I30 THE IVATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 



THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 

OTHE waiting in the watches of the night! 
hi the dartcness, desolation, and contrition and 
affright ; 
The awful hush that holds us shut away from all 
delight : 
The ever weary memory that ever weary goes 
Recounting ever over every aching loss it knows — 
The ever weary eyelids gasping ever for repose — 
In the dreary, weary watches of the night ! 

Dark — stifling dark — the watches of the night ! 
With tingling nerves at tension, how the blackness 

flashes white 
With spectral visitations smitten past the inner sight! — 
What shuddering sense of wrongs we 've wrought 

that may not be redressed — 
Of tears we did not brush away — of lips we left 

unpressed, 
And hands that we let fall, with all their loyalty 
unguessed ! 
Ah! the empty, empty watches of the night! 



THE IVATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 131 

What solace in the watches of the night? — 

What frailest staff of hope to stay — what faintest shaft 

of light? 
Do we dream and dare believe it, that by never weight 
of right 
Of our own poor weak deservings, we shall win the 

dawn at last — 
Our famished souls find freedom from this penance 

for the past, 
In a faith that leaps and lightens from the gloom 
that flees aghast — 
Shall we survive the watches of the night? 

One leads us through the watches of the night — 

By the ceaseless intercession of our loved ones lost to 

sight 
He is with us through all trials, in His mercy and His 
might ; — 
With our mothers there about Him, all our sorrow 

disappears. 
Till the silence of our sobbing is the prayer the 

Master hears. 
And His hand is laid upon us with the tenderness of 
tears 
In the waning of the watches of the night. 



132 HIS VIGIL. 



HIS VIGIL. 

CLOSE the book and dim the light, 
1 shall read no more to-night. 
No — I am not sleepy, dear — 
Do not go : sit by me here 
In the darkness and the deep 
Silence of the watch I keep. 
Something in your presence so 
Soothes me — as in long ago 
I first felt your hand — as now — 
In the darkness touch my brow: 
I 've no other wish than you 
Thus should fold mine eyelids to. 
Saying nought of sigh or tear — 
Just as God were sitting here. 



THE PLAINT HUMAN. 133 



THE PLAINT HUMAN 

SEASON of snows, and season of flowers, 
Seasons of loss and gain ! — 
Since grief and joy must alike be ours, 
Why do we still complain? 

Ever our failing, from sun to sun, 

O my intolerent brother: — 
We want just a little too little of one. 

And much too much of the other. 



134 BY ANY OTHER. NAME. 



BY ANY OTHER NAME. 

P IRST the teacher called the roll, 
-*■ Clos't to the beginnin', 
"Addeliney Bowersox!" 

Set the school a-grinnin'. 
Wintertime, and stingin'-cold 

When the session took up — 
Cold as ive all looked at her, 

Though she could n't look up ! 

Total stranger to us, too — 

Country-folks ain't alius 
Nigh so shameful unpolite 

As some people call us !— 
But the honest facts is, then, 

Addeliney Bower- 
Sox's feelin's was so hurt 

She cried half an hour! 

My dest was acrost from her'n: 

Set and watched her tryin' 
To p'tend she didn't keer, 

And a kind o' dryiu' 
Up her tears with smiles — tel I 

Thought, "Well, 'Addeliney 
Bcmersox'' is plain, but she's 

Party as a piney ! " 



BY ANY OTHER NAME. I35 

It 's be'n many of a year 

Sence that most oncommon 
Cur'ous name 0' Bowersox 

Struck me so abomin- 
Nubble and outlandish-like! — 

I changed it to Adde- 
Liney Datihenspeck — and that 

Nearly killed her Daddy! 



136 TO AN IMPORTUNATE GHOST. 



TO AN IMPORTUNATE GHOST. 

GET gone, thou most uncomfortable ghost! 
Thou really dost annoy me with thy thin 

Impalpable transparency of grin ; 
And the vague, shadowy shape of thee almost 
Hath vext me beyond boundary and coast 

Of my broad patience. Stay thy chattering chin. 

And reel the tauntings of thy vain tongue in, 
Nor tempt me further with thy vaporish boast 

That I am helpless to combat thee! Well, 
Have at thee, then ! Yet if a doom most dire 

Thou wouldst escape, flee whilst thou canst ! — Revile 
Me not, Miasmic Mist! — Rank Air! retire! 

One instant longer an thou haunt'st me, I '11 
Inhale thee, O thou wraith despicable ! 



THE QUARREL. 137 



THE QUARREL. 

THEY faced each other: Topaz-brown 
And lambent burnt her eyes and shot 
Sharp flame at his of amethyst. — 
'I hate you! Go, and be forgot 
As death forgets!" their glitter hissed 
(So seemed it) in their hatred. Ho ! 
Dared any mortal front her so? — 
Tempestuous eyebrows knitted down — 
Tense nostril, mouth — no muscle slack, — 
And black — the suffocating black — 
The stifling blackness of her frown! 

Ah ! but the lifted face of her ! 
And the twitched lip and tilted head ! 
Yet he did neither wince nor stir,— 
Only — his hands clenched ; and, instead 
Of words, he answered with a stare 
That stammered not in aught it said. 
As might his voice if trusted there. 

And what — what spake his steady gaze?— 
Was there a look that harshly fell 
To scoff her? — or a syllable 
Of anger? — or the bitter phrase 
That myrrhs the honey of love's lips, 
Or curdles blood as poison drips ? 



138 THE QUARREL. 



What made their breasts to heave and swell 

As billows under bows of ships 

In broken seas on stormy days? 

We may not know — nor thej> indeed — 

What mercy found them in their need. 

A sudden sunlight smote the gloom ; 

And round about them swept a breeze, 

With faint breaths as of clover-bloom ; 

A bird was heard, through drone of bees, — 

Then, far and clear and eerily, 

A child's voice from an orchard-tree — 

Then laughter, sweet as the perfume 

Of lilacs, could the hearing see. 

And he — O Love ! he fed thy name 

On bruised kisses, while her dim 

Deep eyes, with all their inner flame. 

Like drowning gems were turned on him. 



THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEIV. 139 



THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 

I. 

S one in sorrow looks upon 
The dead face of a loyal friend, 
By the dim light of New Year's dawn 
I saw the Old Year end. 

Upon the pallid features lay 

The dear old smile— so warm and bright 
Ere thus its cheer had died away 

In ashes of delight. 

The hands that I had learned to love 
With strength of passion half divine, 

Were folded now, all heedless of 
The emptiness of mine. 

The eyes that once had shed their bright 
Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull, 

And ever lidded from the light 
That made them beautiful. 



140 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEIV. 

II. 

The chimes of bells were in the air, 
And sounds of mirth in hall and street, 

With pealing laughter everywhere 
And throb of dancing feet: 

The mirth and the convivial din 
Of revelers in wanton glee. 

With tunes of harp and violin 
In tangled harmony. 

But with a sense of nameless dread, 
I turned me, from the merry face 

Of this newcomer, to my dead; 
And, kneeling there a space, 

I sobbed aloud, all tearfully : — 
By this dear face so fixed and cold, 

O Lord, let not this New Year be 
As happy as the old ! 



THE HEREAFTER. 141 



THE HEREAFTER. 

HEREAFTER! O we need not waste 
Our smiles or tears, whate'er befall; 
No happiness but holds a taste 

Of something sweeter, after all ; — 
No depth of agony but feels 

Some fragment of abiding trust, — 
Whatever death unlocks or seals, 
The mute beyond is just. 



142 JOHN BROWN. 



JOHN BROWN. 

XTl 7RIT in between the lines of iiis life-deed 
^^ We trace the sacred service of a heart 
Answering the Divine command, in every part 
Bearing on human weal : His love did feed 
The loveless; and his gentle hands did lead 
The blind, and lift the weak, and balm the smart 
Of other wounds than rankled at the dart 
hi his own breast, that gloried thus to bleed. 
He served the lowliest first — nay, them alone — 
The most despised that e'er wreaked vain breath 
In cries of suppliance in the reign whereat 
Red Guilt sate squat upon her spattered throne. — 
For these doomed there it was he went to death. 
God! how the merest man loves one like that! 



A CUP OF TEA. 143 



A CUP OF TEA. 

T HAVE sipped, with drooping lashes, 
*- Dreamy draughts of Verzenay; 
1 have flourished brandy-smashes 

In the wildest sort of way; 
I have joked with "Tom and Jerry" 

Till "wee hours ayont the twal ' — 
But I 've found my tea the very 

Safest tipple of them all ! 

'Tis a mystical potation 

That exceeds in warmth of glow 
And divine exhilaration 

All the drugs of long ago — 
All of old magicians' potions — 

Of Medea's filtered spells — 
Or of fabled isles and oceans 

Where the Lotos-eater dwells! 

Though I 've reveled o'er late lunches 

With &/d:5/ dramatic stars, 
And absorbed their wit and punches 

And the fumes of their cigars — 
Drank in the latest story, 

With a cock-tail either end, — 
I have drained a deeper glory 

In a cup of tea, my friend. 



144 A CUP OF TEA. 



Green, black, Moyune, Formosa, 

Congou, Amboy, Pingsuey — 
No odds the name it knows — ah ! 

Fill a cup of it for me ! 
And, as I clink my china 

Against your goblet's brim, 
My tea in steam shall twine a 

Fragrant laurel round its rim. 



JUDITH. 145 

JUDITH. 

t~\ HER eyes are amber-fine — 

^^ Dark and deep as wells of wine, 

While her smile is like the noon 

Splendor of a day of June. 

If she sorrow — lo ! her face 

It is like a flowery space 

In bright meadows, overlaid 

With light clouds and lulled with shade. 

If she laugh — it is the trill 

Of the wayward whippoorwill 

Over upland pastures, heard 

Echoed by the mocking-bird 

In dim thickets dense with bloom 

And blurred cloyings of perfume. 

If she sigh — a zephyr swells 

Over odorous asphodels 

And wan lilies in lush plots 

Of moon-drown 'd forget-me-nots. 

Then, the soft touch of her hand — 

Takes all breath to understand 

What to liken it thereto!— 

Never roseleaf rinsed with dew 

Might slip soother-suave than slips 

Her slow palm, the while her lips 

Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss 

Sweet as heated honev is. 



146 THE ART EM US OF MICHIGAN. 

THE ARTEMUS OF MICHIGAN. 

GRAND HAVEN is in Michigan, and in possession, 
too. 
Of as many rare attractions as our party ever knew: — 
The fine hotel, the landlord, and the lordly bill of fare, 
And the dainty-neat completeness of the pretty waiters 

there ; 
The touch on the piano in the parlor, and the trill 
Of the exquisite soprano, in our fancy singing still ; 
Our cozy room, its comfort, and our thousand grateful 

tho'ts. 

And at our door the gentle face 

Of 

H. 

Y. 

Potts ! 

His artless observations, and his drollery of style. 

Bewildered with that sorrowful serenity of smile — 

The eye's elusive twinkle, and the twitching of the lid, 

Like he didn't go to say it and was sorry that he did. 

O Artemus of Michigan ! so worthy of the name. 

Our manager indorses it, and Bill Nye does the same — 

You tickled our affection in so many tender spots 

That even Recollection laughs 

At 

H. 

Y. 

Potts! 



THE ART EM US OF MICHIGAN. 147 

And hark ye ! O Grand Haven ! count your rare 

attractions o'er— 
The commerce of your ships at sea, and ships along 

the shore ; 
Your railroads, and your industries, and interests untold, 
Your Opera House — our lecture, and the gate-receipts in 

gold !— 
Ay, Banner Town of Michigan ! count all your treasures 

through — 
Your crowds of summer tourists, and your Sanita- 
rium, too; 
Your lake, your beach, your drives, your breezy groves 

and grassy plots. 
But head the list of all of these 
With 

H. 

Y. 

Potts! 



148 THE HOODOO. 



THE HOODOO. 

OWNED a pair o' skates onc't.— Traded 
Per 'em, — stropped 'em on and waded 
Up and down the crick, a-waitin' 
Tel she 'd freeze up fit fer skatin'. 
Mildest winter I remember — 

More like Spring- than Winter-weather ! — 
Did n't frost tel bout December- 
Git up airly ketch a feather 
Of it, mayby, 'crost the winder — 
Sunshine swinge it like a cinder! 

Well — I waited — and kep* waitin' ! 

Couldn't see my money's w'oth in 
Them-air skates and was no skatin' 

Ner no hint o' ice ner nothin' ! 
So, one day — along in airly 
Spring — I swopped 'em off — and barely 
Closed the dicker, 'fore the weather 

Natchurly jes slipped the ratchet. 
And crick — tail-race — all together. 

Froze so tight cat couldn't scratch it ! 



THE RIVALS; OR THE SHOWMAN'S RUSE. 149 



THE RIVALS; OR THE SHOWMAN'S RUSE 

A TRAGI-COMEDY, IN ONE ACT. 

PERSONS REPRESENTED. 



The Rivals 



BILLY Miller -> 

JOHNNY WILLIAMS / 

TOMMY WELLS Conspirator 



Time — Noon : SCENE— Country Town — Rear view of the 
Miller Mansion, showing Barn, with practical loft-window 
opening on alley-way, with colored- crayon poster beneath, 
announcing :—" BILLY MILLER'S Big Show and Mon- 
stur Circus and Equareum ! A shour-bath fer Each 
and All fer 20 pins. This Afternoon ! Don't fer git 
the date!" Enter TOMMY WELLS and JOHNNY 
Williams, who ga^e awhUe at poster, TOMMY secretly 
smiling and winking at BILLY MILLER, concealed at 
loft-window above. 

TOMMY (to JOHNNY). 

Guess 'at Billy haint got back, — 
Can 't see nothin' through the crack — 
Can 't hear nothin' neither — No ! 
. . . Thinks he 's got the dandy show, 
Don't he? 



I50 THE RIVALS; OR THE SHOIVMAN'S RUSE. 

JOHNNY (scornfully)— 

'Course! but what / care? — 
He haint got no show in there! — 
What 's he got in there but that 
Old hen, cooped up with a cat 
An' a turkle, an' that thing 
'At he calls his "circus-ring?" 
^^ What a circus-ring ! " I'd quit! 
Bet mine's twic't as big as it! 

TOMMY— 

Yes, hut j/ou got no machine 

Wat you bathe with, painted green, 

With a string to work it, guess ! 

JOHNNY (contemptuously) — 

Folks don't bathe in circuses! — 
Ladies comes to mine, you bet! 
r got seats where girls can set; 
An' a dressin'-room, an' all, 
Fixed up in my pony's stall — 
Yes, an' I' got carpet, too, 
Fer the tumblers, and a blue 
Center-pole ! 



THE RIVALS; OR THE SHO^VMAN'S RUSE. 151 

TOMMY— 

Well, Billy, he's 
Got a tight-rope an' trapeze, 
An' a hoop 'at he jumps through 
Head-first ! 

JOHNNY— 

Well, what 's that to do — 
Lightin' on a pile 0' hay? 
Haint no actm' thataway ! 

Tommy- 
Do n't care what you say, he draws 
Bigger crowds than you do, 'cause 
Sense he started up, I know 
All the fellers says his show 
Is the best-un ! 

JOHNNY— 

Yes, an' he 
Better not tell things on me! 
His old circus haint no good ! — 
'Cause he's got the neighberhood 
Down on me he thinks 'at 1 'm 
Goin' to stand it all the time; 
Thinks ist 'cause my Pa don't 'low 
Me to fight, he's got me now^ 



152 THE RIVALS; OR THE SHOWMAN'S RUSE. 

An' can say I lie, an' call 

Me ist anything at all! 

Billy Miller thinks I am 

'Feared to say 'at he says "dam" — 

Yes, and worser ones ! and I 'm 

Goin' to tell his folks sometime ! — 

An' ef he don't shet his head 

I '11 tell worse 'an that he said 

When he fighted Willie King— 

An' got licked like ever'thing ! — 

Billy Miller better shin 

Down his Daddy's lane agin, 

Like a cowardy-calf, an' climb 

In fer home another time! 

Better— 
{Here BILLY leaps down from the loft upon his unsuspecting 
victim; and two minutes later, JOHNNY, with the half of a 
straw hat, a bleeding nose, and a straight rent across one 
trouser-knee, makes his inglorious — exit.'\ 



IV HAT CHRIS' MAS FETCHED THE IVIGGWSES. i^l, 



WHAT CHRIS'MAS FETCHED THE 
WIGGINSES. 

^1 HNTERTIME, er Summertime, 
^^ Of late years I notice I 'm, 
Kindo'-like, more subjec' to 
What tlie weather is. Now, you 
Folks 'at lives in town, I s'pose, 
Thinks its bully when it snows ; 
But the chap 'at chops and hauls 
Yer wood fer ye, and then stalls, 
And snapps tuggs and swingletrees. 
And then has to walk er freeze, 
Haint so much "stuck on" the snow 
As stuck in it — Bless ye, no ! — 
When its packed, and sleighin's good, 
And church in the neighberhood, 
Them 'at 's got their girls, I guess. 
Takes 'em, likely, more er less. 
Tell the plain facts o' the case. 
No men-folks about our place 
On'y me and Pap — and he 
'Lows 'at young folks' company 



154 IVHAT CHRISTMAS FETCHED THE IVIGGINSES. 

Alius made him sick! So I 
Jes don't want, and jes don't try! 
Chinkypin, the dad-burn town, 
'S too fur off to loaf aroun' 
Either day er night — and no 
Law compellin' me to go ! — 
'Less 'n some Old-Settlers' Day, 
Er big-doin's thataway — 
Then, to tell the p'inted fac', 
I 've went more so 's to come back 
By old Guthrie's 'still-house, where 
Minors has got licker there — 
That 's pervidin' we could show 'em 
Old folks sent fer it from home ! 
Visit roun' the neighbers some, 
When the boys wants me to come. — 
Coon-hunt with 'em ; er set traps 
Fer mussrats ; er jes, perhaps. 
Lay in roun' the stove, you know. 
And parch corn, and let her snow ! 
Mostly, nights like these, you '11 be 
(Ef you' got a writ fer me) 
Ap' to skeer me up, I guess, 
In about the Wigginses. 
Nothin' roun' our place to keep 
Me at home — with Pap asleep 



IVHAT CHRISTMAS FETCHED THE IVIGGINSES. I55 

'Fore it 's dark ; and Mother in 

Mango pickles to lier chin ; 

And the girls, all still as death, 

Piecin' quilts. — Sence 1 drawed breath 

Twenty year' ago, and heerd 

Some girls whispern' sp 's it 'peared 

Like they had a row o' pins 

In their mouth— right there begins 

My first rickollections, built 

On that-air blame old piece-quilt! 

Summertime, it 's jes the same — 
'Cause I 've noticed,— and I claim. 
As I said afore, I 'm more 
Subjec' to the weather, shore, 
'Proachin' my majority, 
Than 1 ever ust to be ! 
Callin' back last Summer, say, — 
Don't seem hardly past away — 
With night closin' in, and all 
S' lonesome-like in the dew-fall: 
Bats— ad-drat their uglv muggs !— 
Flickern' by; and ligh':'n -l:ugs 
Huckstern' roun' the airly night 
Little sickly gasps o' light; — 
Whip-poor-wills, like all possess'd, 
Moanin' out their mournfullest ; — 



156 IV HAT CHRIS' MAS FETCHED THE IVIGGINSES. 

Frogs and katydids and things 
Jes clubs in and sings and sings 
Tlieir ding-dangdest ! — Stock 's all fed, 
And Pap 's washed his feet far bed ; — 
Mother and the girls all down 
At the milk-shed, foolin' roun'^ 
No wunder 'at I git blue, 
And lite out— and so would you ! 
I caint stay aroun' no place 
Whur they haint no livin' face: — 
'Crost the fields and thue the gaps 
Of the hills they 's friends, perhaps, 
Waitin' somers, 'at kin be 
Kindo' comfertin' to me ! 

Neighbers all is plenty good. 
Scattered thue this neighberhood ; 
Yit, of all, I like to jes 
Drap in on the Wigginses. — 
Old man, and old lady too, 
'Pear-like, makes so much o' you — 
Least, they 've alius pampered me 
Like one of the fambily. — 
The boys, too, 's all thataway — 
Want you jes to come and stay;— 
Price, and Chape, and Mandaville, 
Poke, Chasteen, and "Catfish Bill"— 



IV HAT CHRISTMAS FETCHED THE IVIGGIhlSES. 157 



Poke 's the runt of all the rest, 
But he 's jes the beatinest 
Little schemer, fer fourteen, 
Anybody ever seen! — 
"Like his namesake," old man claims, 
"Jeems K. Poke, the first 0' names! 
Full 0' tricks and jokes — and you 
Never know what Poke '5 go' do ! " 
Genius, too, that-air boy is, 
With them awk'ard hands 0' his; 
Gits this blame pokeberry-juice, 
Er some stuff, fer ink — and goose- 
Quill pen-p'ints : And then he '11 draw 
Dogdest pictures yevver saw! 
Er make deers and eagles good 
As a writin '-teacher could ! 
Then they 's two twin boys they 've riz 
Of old Coonrod Wigginses 
'At 's deceast — and glad of it, 
'Cause his widder 's livin' yit! 

Course the boys is mostly jes' 
Why I go to Wigginses.— 
Though Melviney, sometimes, slie 
Gits her slate and algebry 
And jes' sets there ciphern' thue 
Sums old Ray hisse'f caint do! — 



158 WHAT CHRIS'MAS FETCHED THE WIGGINSES. 



Jes' sets there, and tilts her chair 
Forreds tel, 'pear-lil<e, her hair 
Jes' sptlls in her lap — and then 
She jes' dips it up again 
With her hands, as white, I swan. 
As the apern she 's got on ! 

Talk o' hospitality!— 

Go to Wigginses with me — 

Overhet, or froze plum thue. 

You '11 find welcome waitin' you : — 

Th'ow out yer tobacker 'fore 

You set foot acrost that floor, — 

" Got to eat whatever 's set — 
Got to drink whatever 's wet!" 
Old man's sentimuns — them 's his— 
And means jes the best they is ! 
Then he lights his pipe ; and she, 
The old lady, presen'ly 
She lights her'n ; and Chape and Poke. 
I haint got none, ner don't smoke, — 
(In the crick afore their door— 
Sorto so 's 'at I 'd be shore — 
Drownded mine one night and says 

"I won't smoke at IVtggmsesJ") 
Price he 's mostly talkin' 'bout 
Politics, and "thieves turned out"— 



WHAT CHRISTMAS FETCHED THE IVIGGINSES. 159 

What he 's go' to be, ef he 

Ever "gits there"— and "we'll see!" — 

Poke he 'lows they 's blame few men 

Go' to hold their breath tel then ! 

Then Melviney smiles, as she 

Goes on with her algebry. 

And the clouds clear, and the room 's 

Sweeter 'n crabapple-blooms ! 

(That Melviney, she' got some 

Most surprisin' ways, I gum! — 

Don't 'pear like she ever saj/s 

Nothin', yit you '11 Msten jes 

Like she was a-talkin', and 

Half-way seem to understand, 

But not quite, — Poke does, I know, 

'Cause he good as told me so, — 

Poke 's her favo-rite ; and he — 

That is, confidentially— 

He's my favo-rite — and I 

Got my whurfore and my why!) 

I haint never ben no hand 

Much at talkin', understand. 

But they 's thoughts 0' mine 'at 's jes 

Jealous 0' them Wigginses ! — 

Gift 0' talkin 's what they' got. 

Whether they want to er not.— 



i6o IVHAT CHRISTMAS FETCHED THE IVIGGINSES. 

F'r instunce, start the old man on 
Huntin'-scrapes, 'fore game was gone, 
'Way back in the Forties, when 
Bears stold pigs right out the pen, 
Er went waltzin' 'crost the farm 
With a bee-hive on their arm ! — 
And — sir, ping! the old man's gun 
Has plumped over many a one, 
Firin' at him from afore 
That-air very cabin-door! 
Yes — and painters, prowlin' 'bout, 
Alius darkest nights. — Lay out 
Clost yer cattle. — Great, big red 
Eyes a-blazin' in their head, 
Glittern' 'long the timber-line — 
Shine out some, and then zm-shlne, 
And shine back — Then, stiddy! whizz! 
'N there yer Mr. Painter is 
With a hole bored spang between 
Them-air eyes! Er start Chasteen, 
Say, on blooded racin'-stock, 
Ef you want to hear him talk ; 
Er tobacker — how to raise. 
Store, and k-yore it, so 's she pays : 
The old lady— and she '11 cote 
Scriptur' tel she '11 git yer vote ! 



JVHAT CHRIS'MAS FETCHED THE IVIGGINSES. i6i 

Prove to you 'at wrong is right, 
Jes as plain as black is white : 
Prove when you 're asleep in bed 
You 're a-standin' on yer head, 
And yer train 'at 's goin' West, 
'S goin' East its level best; 
And when bees dies, it's their wings 
Wears out— and a thousand things! 
And the boys is "chips," you know, 
"Off the old block"— So I go 
To the Wigginses, 'cause — jes 
'Cause I like the Wigginses — 
Even ef Melviney she 
Hardly 'pears to notice me ! 

Rid to Chinkypin this week — 
Yisterd'y.— No snow to speak 
Of, and didn't have no sleigh 
Anyhow; so, as I say, 
I rid in — and froze one ear 
And both heels— and I don't keer! — 
" Mother and the girls kin jes 
Bother 'bout their Chris'mases 
Next time fer theirse'vs, I jack ! " 
Thinks-says-I, a-startin' back, — 
Whole durn meal-bag full of things 
Wropped in paper-sacks, and strings 



t62 IVHAT CHRISTMAS FETCHED THE IVIGGINSES. 

Liable to snap their holt 

Jes at any little jolt! 

That in front o' me, and wind 

With nicks in it, 'at jes skinned 

Me alive ! — I 'm here to say 

Nine mile' hossback thataway 

Would a-walked my log ! But, as 

Somepin' alius comes to pass, 
' As I topped old Guthrie's hill, 

Saw a buggy, front the 'Still, 

P'inted home'ards, and a thin 

Little chap jes climbin' in. 

Six more minutes I were there 

On the groun's! — And course it were— 

It were little Poke — and he 

Nearly fainted to see me! — 
" You ben in to Chinky, too ? " 
" Yes ; and go' ride back with you," 

I-says-I. He he'pped me find 

Room fer my things in behind — 

Stript my hoss's reins down, and 

Put his mitt' on the right hand 

So 's to lead— " Pile in!" says he, 
" But you 've struck pore company!" 

Noticed he was pale — looked sick, 

Kindo-like, and had a quick 



IVHAT CHRIS'MAS FETCHED THE IVIGGINSES. 163 

Way 0' flickin' them-air eyes 
O' his roun' 'at didn't size 
Up right with his usual style — 
S' I, "You well?" He tried to smile, 
But his chin shuck and tears come. — 
"I've run 'Ftnej> 'way from home!" 

Don't know jes what all occurred 
Next ten seconds — Nary word, 
But my heart jes drapt, stobbed thue, 
And whirlt over and come to. — 
Wrenched a big quart bottle from 
That fool-boy ! — and cut my thumb 
On his little fiste-teeth— helt 
Him snug in one arm, and felt 
That-air little heart 0' his 
Churn the blood 0' Wigginses 
Into that old bead 'at spun 
Roun' her, spilt at Lexington! 
His k'niptions, like enough, 
He'pped us both, — though it was rough- 
Rough on him, and rougher on 
Me when last his nerve was gone. 
And he laid there still, his face 
Fishln' fer some hidin'-place 
Jes a leetle lower down 
In my breast than he 'd yit foun' ! 



i64 WHAT CHT{IS'MAS FETCHED THE IVIGGINSES. 

Last I kindo' soothed him, so 's 
He could talk. — And what you s'pose 
Them-air revelations of 
Poke's was? ... He 'd ben writin' love- 
Letters to Melviney, and 
Givin her to understand 
They was from "a young man who 
Loved her," and— "the violet's blue 
'N sugar's sweet" — and Lord knows what! 
Tel, 'peared-like, Melviney got 
S' interested in "the young 
Man," Poke he says, 'at she brung 
A' answer onc't fer him to take, 
Statin' "she'd die fer his sake," 
And writ fifty xs "fer 
Love-kisses fer him from her!" 
I was standin' in the road 
By the buggy, all I knowed 
When Poke got that fer. — " That 's why," 
Poke says, " I 'fessed up the lie — 
Had to — 'cause 1 see," says he, 
" 'Viney was in airnest — she 
Cried, too, when I told her. — Then 
She swore me, and smiled again. 
And got Pap and Mother to 
Let me hitch and drive her thue 



IVHAT CHT{IS'MAS FETCHED THE IVIGGINSES. 165 

Into Chinkypin, to be 
At Aunt 'Rindy's Chris'mas-tree — 
That's to-night," Says I, "Poke — durn 
Your lyin' soul! — 's that beau 0' hern — 
That — she — loves — Does he live in 
That hellhole 0' Chinkypin ? " 

" No," says Poke, " er 'Viney would 
Went some other neighberhood." 

"Who is the blame whelp?" says I. 

"Promised 'Viney, hope I 'd die 
Ef I ever told ! " says Poke, 
Pittiful and jes heart-broke — 

" 'Sides that 's why she left the place, — 
'She caint look him in the face 
Now no more on earth ! ' she says. — " 
And the child broke down and jes 
Sobbed ! Says I, " Poke, I p'tend 
T' be jyou7' friend, and your Pap's friend, 
And your Mother's friend, and all 
The bofs^ friend, little, large and small— 
The whole fambiiys friend — and you 
Know that means Melvhief, too. — 
Now— you hush yer troublin' !— 1 'm 
Go' to he'p friends ever' time — 
On'y in this case, jyou got 
To he'p me — and, like as not 



1 66 IVHAT CHRISTMAS FETCHED THE IVIGGINSES. 

I kin he'p Melvlney then, 
And we'll have her home again. 
And now, Poke, with your consent, 
I 'm go' go to that-air gent 
She 's in love with, and confer 
With him on his views o' her. — 
Blast him ! give the man some show. — 
Who is he? — Pm go' to know I'''' 
Somepin' struck the little chap 
Funny, 'peared-like. — Give a slap 
On his leg — laughed thue the dew 
In his eyes, and says: "//'s^ow.'" 

Yes, and — 'cordin' to the last 
Love-letters of ours 'at passed 
Thue his hands — we was to be 
Married Chris'mas. — " Gee-mun-«^^ / 
Poke," says I, "it's suddent—y'xi 
We hin make it! You're to git 
Up tomorry, say, 'bout three — 
Tell your folks you 're go' with me ; — 
We '11 hitch up, and jes drive in 
'N take the town o' Chinkypin ! " 



GO, IVWTER. 167 



GO, WINTER! 

GO, Winter ! Go thy ways ! We want again 
The twitter of the bluebird and the wren ; 
Leaves ever greener growing, and the shine 
Of Summer's sun — not thine, — 

Thy sun, which mocks our need of warmth and love 
And all the heartening fervencies thereof, 
It scarce hath heat enow to warm our thin 
Pathetic yearnings in. 

So get thee from us ! We are cold, God wot. 
Even as thou art. — We remember not 
How blithe we hailed thy coming. — That was O 
Too long^too long ago ! 

Get from us utterly ! Ho ! Summer then 
Shall spread her grasses where thy snows have been, 
And thy last icy footprint melt and mold 
In her first marigold. 



i68 ELIZABETH. 



ELIZABETH. 

May I, i8gi. 

I. 
■pLIZABETH! Elizabeth! 
■'— ' The first May-morning whispereth 
Thy gentle name in every breeze 
That lispeth through the young-leaved trees, 
New raimented in white and green 
Of bloom and leaf to crown thee queen ; — 
And, as in odorous chorus, all 
The orchard-blossoms sweetly call 
Even as a singing voice that saith 
Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! 

II. 

Elizabeth! Lo, lily-fair, 

In deep, cool shadows of thy hair, 

Thy face maintaineth its repose.— 

Is it, O sister of the rose. 

So better, sweeter, blooming thus 

Than in this briery world with us? — 

Where frost o'ertaketh, and the breath 

Of biting winter harrieth 
With sleeted rains and blighting snows 
All fairest blooms— Elizabeth ! 



ELIZABETH. 169 



III. 

Nay, then ! — So reign, Elizabeth, 
Crowned, in thy May-day realm of death! 
Put forth the scepter of thy love 
In every star-tipped blossom of 
The grassy dais of thy throne! 
Sadder are we, thus left alone, 
But gladder they that thrill to see 
Thy mother's rapture, greeting thee. 
Bereaved are we by life— not death — 
Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! 



170 SLEEP. 



SLEEP. 

ORPHANED, I cry to thee: 
Sweet sleep !_ O kneel and be 
A mother unto me ! 

Calm thou my childish fears : 
Fold — fold mine eyelids to, all tenderly, 
And dry my tears. 

Come, Sleep, all drowsy-eyed 
And faint with languor, — slide 
Thy dim face down beside 

Mine own, and let me rest 
And nestle in thy heart, and there abide, 
A favored guest. 

Good night to every care, 

And shadow of despair! 

Good night to all things where 

Within is no delight ! — 
Sleep opens her dark arms, and, swooning 
there, 

I sob: Good night — good night! 



DAN PA IKE. 171 



DAN PAINE. 

/^LD friend of mine, whose chiming name 
^-^ Has been the burthen of a rhyme 
Within my heart since first I came 
To know thee in thy mellow prime; 
With warm emotions in my breast 
That can but coldly be expressed, 
And hopes and wishes wild and vain, 
I reach my hand to thee, Dan Paine. 

Tn fancy, as I sit alone 

In gloomy fellowship with care, 
I hear again thy cheery tone. 
And wheel for thee an easy chair; 
And from my hand the pencil falls — 
My book upon the carpet sprawls, 
As eager soul and heart and brain. 
Leap up to welcome thee, Dan Pain 

A something gentle in thy mein, 

A something tender in thy voice. 
Has made my trouble so serene, 
I can but weep, from very choice. 
And even then my tears, I guess. 
Hold more of sweet than bitterness. 
And more of gleaming shine than rain. 
Because of thy bright smile Dan Paine. 



172 DAN PAINE. 



The wrinkles that the years have spun 

And tangled round thy tawny face, 
Are kinked with laughter, every one. 
And fashioned in a mirthful grace. 
And though the twinkle of thine eyes 
Is keen as frost when Summer dies, 
It can not long as frost remain 
While thy warm soul shines out, Dan Paine. 

And so I drain a health to thee:— 
May merry Joy and jolly Mirth 
Like children clamber on thy knee, 
And ride thee round the happy earth ! 
And when, at last, the hand of Fate 
Shall lift the latch of Canaan's gate, 
And usher me in thy domain, 
Smile on me just as now, Dan Paine. 



OLD JVINTERS ON THE FARM. 17^ 



OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM 

T HAVE jest about decided 

■■■ It 'ud keep a town-hoy hoppin' 

Fer to work all winter, choppin' 
Fer a' old fire-place, like / did! 
Lawz ! them old times wuz contrairy !— 

Blame backbone 0' winter, 'peared-like, 

JVouldfi't break ! — and I wuz skeerd-like 
Clean on into Fehuary ! 

Nothin' ever made we madder 
Than fer Pap to stomp in, layin' 
On a' extra fore-stick, sayin' 

**Grown'hog's out and seed his shadder!" 



174 ^T UTTER LOAF. 



AT UTTER LOAF. 

I. 

A N afternoon as ripe with heat 
-**• As might the golden pippin be 
With mellowness if at my feet 

It dropped now from the apple-tree 

My hammock swings in lazily. 

II. 

The boughs about me spread a shade 
That shields me from the sun, but weaves 
With breezy shuttles through the leaves 

Blue rifts of skies, to gleam and fade 
Upon the eyes that only see 
Just of themselves, all drowsily. 

III. 

Above me drifts the fallen skein 
Of some tired spider, looped and blown, 

As fragile as a strand of rain, 
Across the air, and upward thrown 
By breaths of hayfields newly mown — 

So glimmering it is and fine, 

I doubt these drowsy eyes of mine. 



AT UTTER LOAF. 175 

IV. 

Far-off and faint as voices pent 
In mines, and heard from underground, 

Come murmurs as of discontent, 
And clamorings of sullen sound 

The city sends me, as, I guess, 

To vex me, though they do but bless 

Me in my drowsy fastnesses. 

V. 

I have no care. I only know 

My hammock hides and holds me here 

In lands of shade a prisoner: 
While lazily the breezes blow 

Light leaves of sunshine over me. 
And back and forth and to and fro 

I swing, enwrapped in some hushed glee, 

Smiling at all things drowsily 



176 A LOUKIGER. 



A LOUNGER. 

T TE leant against a lamp-post, lost 

^ ^ In some mysterious reverie: 

His head was bowed ; his arms were crossed ; 

He yawned, and glanced evasively : 
Uncrossed his arms, and slowly put 

Them back again, and scratched his side — 
Shifted his weight from foot to foot. 

And gazed out no-ward, idle-eyed. 

Grotesque of form and face and dress, 

And picturesque in every way — 

A figure that from day to day 
Drooped with a limper laziness ; 

A figure such as artists lean, 

In pictures where distress is seen, 
Against low hovels where we guess 

No happiness has ever been. 



A SONG OF LONG AGO. 177 



^ A SONG OF LONG AGO. 

A SONG of Long Ago : 
Sing it liglitly — sing it low- 
Sing it softly — like the lisping of the lips we 

used to know 
When our baby-laughter spilled 
From the glad hearts ever filled 
With music blithe as robin ever trilled ! 

Let the fragrant summer-breeze, 

And the leaves of locust-trees, 

And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the 

wings of honey-bees, 
All palpitate with glee. 
Till the happy harmony 
Brings back each childish joy to you and me. 

Let the eyes of fancy turn 

Where the tumbled pippins burn 

Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled 

grass and fern, — 
There let the old path wind 
In and out and on behind 
The cider-press that chuckles as we grind. 



1 78 A SONG OF LONG AGO. 

Blend in the song the moan 

Of the dove that grieves alone, 

And the wild whir of the locust, and the 

bumble's drowsy drone ; 
And the low of cows that call 
Through the pasture-bars when all 
The landscape fades away at evenfall. 

Then, far away and clear, 

Through the dusky atmosphere. 

Let the wailing of the kildee be the only 

sound we hear : 
O sad and sweet and low 
As the memory may know 
Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago! 



THE CHAhIT OF THE CROSS-BEARING CHILD. 179 



THE CHANT OF THE CROSS-BEARING 
CHILD. 

T BEAR dis cross dis many a mile. 
■*■ O de cross-bearin' chile — 
De cross-bearin' chile! 

I bear dis cross 'long many a road 
Wha' de pink ain't bloom' an' de grass done mowed. 
O de cross-bearin' chile — 
De cross-bearin' chile! 

Hits on my conscience all dese days 
Fo' ter bear de cross ut de good Lord lays 
On my po' soul, an' ter lif my praise. 
O de cross-bearin' chile — 
De cross-bearin' chile! 

I 's nigh-'bout weak ez I mos' kin be, 
Yit de Marstah call an' He say, — " You 's free 
Fo' ter 'cept dis cross, an' ter cringe yo' knee 
To no n'er man in de worl' but me!" 
O de cross-bearin' chile — 
De cross-bearin' chile! 



i8o THE CHANT OF THE CROSS-BEARING CHILD. 

Says you guess wrong, ef I let you guess — 
Says you 'spec' mo', an'-a you git less : — 
Says you go eas', says you go wes', 
An' whense you fine de road ut you like bes' 
You betteh take ch'ice er any er de res' ! 
O de cross-bearin' chile — ■ 
De cross-bearin' chile! 

He build my feet, an' He fix de signs 
Dat de shoe hit pinch an' de shoe hit bines 
Ef I on'y w'ah eights an-a wanter w'ah nines; 
I hone fo' de rain, an' de sun hit shines, 
An' whilse I hunt de sun, hits de rain I fines. — 
O-a trim my lamp, an-a gyrd my lines ! 
O de cross-bearin' chile — 
De cross-bearin' chile! 

I wade de wet, an' I walk de dry: 
I done tromp long, an' I done dim high; 
An' I pilgrim on ter de jasper sky. 
An' I taken de resk fo' ter cas' my eye 
Wha' de Gate swing wide an' de Lord draw nigh, 
An' de Trump hit blow, an' I hear de cry, — 
"You lay dat cross down by an' by! — 
O de Cross-bearin' Chile — 
De Cross-bearin' Chile!" 



THANKSGIVING. i8i 



THANKSGIVING. 

LET us be thankful — not only because 
Since last our universal thanks were told 
We have grown greater in the world's applause, 
And fortune's newer smiles surpass the old — 

But thankful for all things that come as alms 
From out the open hand of Providence: — 

The winter clouds and storms — the summer calms - 
The sleepless dread — the drowse of indolence. 

Let us be thankful — thankful for the prayers 
Whose gracious answers were long, long delayed, 

That they might fall upon us unawares. 
And bless us, as in greater need, we prayed. 

Let us be thankful for the loyal hand 
That love held out in welcome to our own, 

When love and only love could understand 
The need of touches we had never known. 

Let us be thankful for the longing eyes 
That gave their secret to us as they wept, 

Yet in return found, with a sweet surprise. 
Love's touch upon their lids, and, smiling, slept. 



1 82 THANKSGIVING. 



And let us, too, be thankful that the tears 
Of sorrow have not all been drained away, 

That through them still, for all the coming years, 
We may look on the dead face of To-day 



AUTUMN. 183 



AUTUMN. 

A S a harvester, at dusk, 
■**■ Faring down some woody trail 
Leading homeward through the musk 
Of may-apple and pawpaw, 
Hazel-bush, and spice and haw, — 
So comes Autumn, swart and hale. 
Drooped of frame and slow of stride, 
But withal an air of pride 
Looming up in stature far 
Higher than his shoulders are; 
Weary both in arm and limb, 
Yet the wholesome heart of him 
Sheer at rest and satisfied. 

Greet him as with glee of drums 
And glad cymbals, as he comes ! 
Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine! 
He the Emperor — the King — 
Royal lord of everything 
Sagging Plenty's granary floors 
And out-bulging all her doors; 
He the god of corn and wine. 
Honey, milk, and fruit and oil — 
Lord of feast, as lord of toil — 
Jocund host of yours and mine ! 



i84 . AUTUMN. 



Ho ! the revel of his laugh ! — 

Half is sound of winds, and half 

Roar of ruddy blazes drawn 

Up the throats of chimneys wide, 

Circling which, from side to side, 

Faces — lit as by the Dawn, 

With her highest tintings on 

Tip of nose, and cheek, and chin — 

Smile at some old fairy-tale 

Of enchanted lovers, in 

Silken gown and coat of mail, 

With a retinue of elves 

Merry as their very selves, 

Trooping ever, hand in hand, 

Down the dales of Wonderland. 

Then the glory of his song! — 
Lifting up his dreamy eyes — 
Singing haze across the skies ; 
Singing clouds that trail along 
Towering tops of trees that seize 
Tufts of them to stanch the breeze; 
Singing slanted strands of rain 
In between the sky and earth. 
For the lyre to mate the mirth- 



AUTUMN. 185 



And the might of his refrain: 
Singing southward-flying birds 
Down to us, and afterwards 
Singing them to flight again ; 
Singing blushes to the cheeks 
Of the leaves upon the trees — 
Singing on and changing these 
Into pallor, slowly wrought, 
Till the little, moaning creeks 
Bear them to their last farewell, 
As Elaine, the lovable. 
Was borne down to Lancelot, — 
Singing drip of tears, and then 
Drying them with smiles again. 

Singing apple, peach and grape. 

Into roundest, plumpest shape; 

Rosy ripeness to the face 

Of the pippin ; and the grace 

Of the dainty stamin-tip 

To the huge bulk of the pear, 

Pendant in the green caress 

Of the leaves, and glowing through 

With the tawny laziness 

Of the gold that Ophir knew, — 

Haply, too, within its rind 

Such a cleft as bees may find, 



AUTUMN. 



Bungling on it half aware, 
And wherein to see them sip 
Fancy lifts an oozy lip, 
And the singer's falter there. 

Sweet as swallows swimming through 

Eddyings of dusk and dew. 

Singing happy scenes of home 

Back to sight of eager eyes 

That have longed for them to come, 

Till their coming is surprise 

Uttered only by the rush 

Of quick tears and prayerful hush: 

Singing on, in clearer key. 

Hearty palms of you and me 

Into grasps that tingle still 

Rapturous, and ever will ! 

Singing twank and twang of strings — 

Trill of flute and clarinet 

In a melody that rings 

Like the tunes we used to play. 

And our dreams are playing yet! 

Singing lovers, long astray, 

Each to each ; and, sweeter things, — 

Singing in their marriage-day, 

And a banquet holding all 

These delights for festival. 



\ 



THE T IV INS. 187 



THE TWINS. 

ONE 'S the pictur' of his Pa, 
And the other of her Ma— 
Jes the bossest pair 0' babies 'at a mortal 

ever saw ! 
And we love 'em as the bees 
Loves the blossoms of the trees, 
A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze ! 

One's got her Mammy's eyes — 

Soft and blue as Apurl-skies — 

With the same sort of a smile, like — Yes, and 

mouth about her size, — 
Dimples, too, in cheek and chin, 
'At my lips jes wallers in, 
A-goin' to work, er gittin' home agin. 

And the other — Well, they say 

That he 's got his Daddy's way 

O' bein' ruther soberfied, er ruther extry gay, — 

That he either cries his best, 

Er he laughs his howlin'est — 

Like all he lacked was buttons and a vest ! 



THE TIVINS. 



Look at her! — and look at him! — 

Talk about yer " Cheru-&m2 .' " 

Roll 'em up in dreams together, rosy arm 

and chubby limb! 
O we love 'em as the bees 
Loves the blossoms of the trees, 
A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze! 



BEDOUIN. 189 



BEDOUIN. 

OLOVE is like an untamed steed! — 
So hot of heart and wild of speed, 
And with fierce freedom so in love, 
The desert is not vast enough, 
With all its leagues of glimmering sands, 
To pasture it! Ah, that my hands 
Were more than human in their strength. 
That my deft lariat at length 
Might safely noose this splendid thing 
That so defies all conquering ! 
Ho! but to see it whirl and reel — 
The sands spurt forward — and to feel 
The quivering tension of the thong 
That throned me high, with shriek and song! 
To grapple tufts of tossing mane — 
To spurn it to its feet again, 
And then, sans saddle, rein or bit, 
To lash the mad life out of it! 



ipo TUGG MARTIN. 



TUGG MARTIN. 

I. 

'yUGG Martin's tough— No doubt o' that! 
* And down there at 

The town he come from word 's bin sent 
Advisin' this-here Settle-ment 
To kindo' humor Tugg, and not 
To git him hot. — 
Jest pass his imperfections by, 
And he 's as good as pie ! 

II. 

They claim he 's wanted bacl< there. — Yit 

The officers they mostly quit 
Inststin' when 

They notice Tugg's so back'ard, and 

Sorto' gives 'em to understand 
He druther not! — A Deputy 
(The slickest one you ever see !) 

Tackled him last — "disguisin' then," 

As Tugg says, "as a gentlemen!" — 
You'd ort o' hear T^igg tell \t\—AfyJ 
I thought I 'd di'e .' 



TUGG MARTIN. 191 



III. 

The way it wuz : — Tugg and the rest 

The boys wuz jest 
A-kindo' gittin' thawed out, down 
At "Guss's Place," fur-end 0' town, 
One night, when, first we knowed. 

Some feller rode 
Up in a buggy at the door, 
And hollered fer some one to come 

And fetch him some 
Red-licker out — And whirped and swore 
That colt he drove wuz " Thompson's'^ shore! 

IV. 

Guss went out, and come in agin 

And filled a pint and tuck it out — 
Stayed quite a spell— then peeked back in, 
Half-hid-like where the light wuz dim. 
And jieuked his head 
At Tugg and said, — 
"Come out a minute — here's a gent 

Wants you to take a drink with him," 



192 TUGG MARTIN. 



V. 

Well — Tugg laid down his cards and went — 
In fact, we all 

Got up, you know, 
Star tin'' to go — 
When in reels Guss aginst the wall, 

As white as snow, 
Gaspin', — "He's tuck Tugg! — IVher's my gun?' 

And-sir, outside we heerd 
The hoss snort and kick up his heels 

Like he wuz skeerd. 
And then the buggy-wheels 
Scrape — and then Tugg's voice hollerun', — 
'7'm bested! — Good-hye, fellers!'''' . . . 'Peared 
S' all-fired suddent. 
Nobody couldn't 
Jest git it fixed, — tel hoss and man, 

Buggy and Tugg, off through the dark 
Went like the devil beatin' tan- 
Bark ! 

VI. 

What could we do? . . . We filed back to 
The bar : And Guss jest looked at us, 
And we looked back "The same as you," 



TUGG MARTIN. 193 



Still sajyin' nothln' — And the sap 
It stood in every eye, 
And every hat and cap 
Went off, as we teched glasses solemnly, 

And Guss says-he : 
"Ef it's 'good-bye' with Tugg, fer shore, — I say 

God bless him ! — Er ef they 

Aint railly no need to pray, 
I 'm not reniggin'' — board 's the play, 
And here 's God bless him, anyway ! " 

VII. 
It must a-bin an hour er so 
We all set there, 
Talkin 0' pore 

Old Tugg, you know, 
'At never wuz ketched up before — 
When — all slow-like — the door- 
Knob turned — and Tugg come shamblin' in. 
Hand-cuffed! — 'at's what he wuz, I swear! — 

Yit smilin,' like he hadn't bin 
Away at all ! And when we ast him where 
The Deputy wuz at,— "I don't know wA^r^," Tugg 
said, — 

"All / know is— he's dead." 



194 LET US FORGET. 



LET US FORGET. 

T ET us forget. What matters it that v/e 

•*— ' Once reigned o'er happy realms of long-ago, 

And talked of love, and let our voices low. 
And ruled for some brief sessions royally? 
What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe? 

It has availed not anything, and so 

Let it go by that we may better know 
How poor a thing is lost to you and me. 

But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yet 
Did thrill you not enough to shake the dew 

From your drenched lids — and missed, with no 
regret, 
Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you ; 

And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wet 

With all this waste of tears, let us forget ! 



JOHN ALDEN AND PERCILLY. 195 



JOHN ALDEN AND PERCILLY. 

\1 7E got up a Christmas-doin's 
"'^ Last Christmas Eve — 
Kindo' dimonstration 

'At I railly believe 
Give more satisfaction — 

Take It up and down — 
Than ary Intertainment 

Ever come to town ! 

Railly was a theater — 

That 's what it was, — 
But, beln' In the church, you know, 

We had a "Santj/ Clause^' — 
So 's to git the old folks 

To patternlze, you see, 
And back the instltootlon up 

Kindo' morally. 

Schoolteacher writ the thing — 

(Was a friend 0' mine). 
Got it out 0' Longfeller's 

Pome "Evangeline"— 
Er some'rs — 'bout the Purituns — . 

^«^way, the part 
"John Alden " fell to me— 

And learnt it all by heart! 



196 JOHl^ ALDEN AND PERCILLY. 

Claircy was " Perctlly" — 

(Schoolteacher 'lowed 
Me and her could act them two 

Best of all the crowd) — 
Then — blame ef he didn't 

Git her Pap, i jing ! — 
To take the part o' " Saiitj^ Clause,^' 

To wind up the thing. 

Law ! the fun o' practisun ! — 

Was a week er two 
Me and Claircy didn't have 

Nothin'-else to do! — 
Kep' us jes a-meetin' round, 

Kindo' here and there, 
Ever' night rehearsin'-like, 

And gaddin' ever'where! 

Game was wo'th the candle, though !- 

Christmas Eve at last 
Rolled around. — And 'tendance jes 

Couldn't been su'passed ! — 
Neighbers from the country 

Come from Clay and Rush — 
Yes, and 'crost the county-line 

Clean from Puckerbrush! 



JOHN ALDEN AND PERCILLY. 197 

Meetin'-house jes trimbled 

As "Old Santy" went 
Round amongst the childern, 

With their pepperment 
And sassafrac and wintergreen 

Candy, and " a ball 
O' popcorn," the preacher 'nounced, 

"Free fer each and all! " 

Schoolteacher suddently 

Whispered in my ear, — 
"Guess I got you: — Christmas- gift ! — 

Christmas is here ! ' ' 
I give him a gold pen. 

And case to hold the thing. — 
And Claircy whispered "Christmas-gift!" 

And 1 give her a ring. 

"And now," says I, "jes watch mt — 

Christmas-gift," says I, 
"/'jw a-goin' to git one — 
^ Santy s^ comin' by!" — 
Then I rech and grabbed him : 

And, as you '11 infer, 
'Course I got the old man's, 
And he gimme her J 



198 REACH YOUR HAND TO ME. 

REACH YOUR HAND TO ME. 

REACH your hand to me, my friend, 
With its heartiest caress — 
Sometime there will come an end 
To its present faithfulness — 

Sometime I may ask in vain 
For the touch of it again, 
When between us land or sea 
Holds it ever back from me. 

Sometime 1 may need it so, 

Groping somewhere in the night, 
It will seem to me as though 
Just a touch, however light. 

Would make all the darkness day, 
And along some sunny way 
Lead me through an April-shower 
Of my tears to this fair hour. 

O the present is too sweet 

To go on forever thus ! 
Round the corner of the street 
Who can say what waits for us? — 

Meeting — greeting, night and day. 
Faring each the self-same way — 
Still somewhere the path must end. — 
Reach your hand to me, my friend! 



THE ROSE. 199 



THE ROSE. 

TT tossed its head at the wooing breeze; 
^ And the sun, like a bashful swain, 
Beamed on it through the waving trees 

With a passion all in vain, — 
For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, 
And hid in the leaves in wait for me. 

The honey-bee came there to sing 
His love through the languid hours, 

And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king 
Might boast of his palace-towers : 

But my rose bowed in a mockery, 

And hid in the leaves in wait for me. 

The humming-bird, like a courtier gay, 
Dipped down with a dalliant song, 

And twanged his wings through the roundelay 
Of love the whole day long: 

Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy 

And hid in the leaves in wait for me. 



THE ROSE. 

The firefly came in the twilight dim 

My red, red rose to woo — 
Til! quenched was the flame of love in him, 

And the light of his lantern too, 
As my rose wept with dewdrops three 
And hid in the leaves in wait for me. 

And I said : I will cull my own sweet rose — 

Some day I will claim as mine 
The priceless worth of the flower that knows 

No change, but a bloom divine — 
The bloom of a fadeless constancy 
That hides in the leaves in wait for me! 

But time passed by in a strange disguise, 

And I marked it not, but lay 
In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes. 

Till the summer slipped away. 
And a chill wind sang in a minor key : 
"Where is the rose that waits for thee?" 



I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain 
Of bloom on a withered stalk, 

Pelted down by the autumn rain 
In the dust of the garden-walk. 

That an Angel-rose in the world to be 

Will hide in the leaves in wait for me. 



MY FRIEND. 



MY FRIEND. 

^^TTE is my friend," I said, — 
AA "Be patient ! " Overhead 
The skies were drear and dim ; 
And lo ! the thought of him 
Smiled on my heart — and then 
The sun shone out again ! 

"He is my friend ! " The words 
Brought summer and the birds ; 
And all my winter-time 
Thawed into running rhyme 
And rippled into song, 
"Warm, tender, brave, and strong. 

And so it sings to-day. — 
So may it sing alway ! 
Though waving grasses grow 
Between, and lilies blow 
Their trills of perfume clear 
As laughter to the ear, 
Let each mute measure end 
With "Still he is thy friend." 



202 SUSPENSE. 



SUSPENSE. 

A WOMAN'S figure, on a ground of night 
Inlaid with sallow stars that dimly stare 

Down in the lonesome eyes, uplifted there 
As in vague hope some alien lance of light 
Might pierce their woe. The tears that blind her sight- 

The salt and bitter blood of her despair — 

Her hands toss back through torrents of her hair 
And grip toward God with anguish infinite. 

And O the carven mouth, with all its great 
Intensity of longing frozen fast 

In such a smile as well may designate 
The slowly-murdered heart, that, to the last. 

Conceals each newer wound, and back at Fate 
Throbs Love's eternal lie — " Lo, I can wait!" 



THE PASSING OF A HEART. 203 



THE PASSING OF A HEART. 

O TOUCH me with your hands — 
For pity's sake! 
My brow throbs ever on with such an ache 
As only your cool touch may take away ; 
And so, ! pray 

You, touch me with your hands ! 



Touch — touch me with your hands. — 

Smooth back the hair 
You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair 
That I did dream its gold would wear alway, 
And lo, to-day — 

O touch me with your hands! 

Just touch me with your hands, 

And let them press 
My weary eyelids with the old caress. 
And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way. 
That Death may say : 

He touched her with his hands. 



204 BY HER IVHITE BED. 



BY HER WHITE BED. 

BY her white bed I muse a little space: 
She fell asleep — not very long ago, — 
And yet the grass was here and not the snow — 
The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and — her face ! — 
Midsummer's heaven above us, and the grace 
Of Love's own day, from dawn to afterglow ; 
The fireflies' glimmering, and the sweet and low 
Plaint of the whip-poor-wills, and every place 
In thicker twilight for the roses' scent. 
Then night. — She slept — in such tranquility, 
I walk atiptoe still, nor dare to weep, 
Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content — 
That though God stood to wake her for me, she 
Would mutely plead: "Nay, Lord! Let him so 
sleep." 



IVE TO SIGH INSTEAD OF SING. 205 

WE TO SIGH INSTEAD OF SING. 

^^ DAIN and rain! and rain and rain!" 
••■^ Yesterday we muttered 
Grimly as the grim refrain 

That the thunders uttered : 
All the heavens under cloud — 

All the sunshine sleeping ; 
All the grasses limply bowed 

With their weight of weeping. 

Sigh and sigh! and sigh and sigh! 

Never end of sighing ; 
Rain and rain for our reply — 

Hopes half-drowned and dying ; 
Peering through the window-pane, 

Naught but endless raining — 
Endless sighing, and, as vain. 

Endlessly complaining. 

Shine and shine ! and shine and shine ! 

Ah! to-day the splendor! — 
All this glory yours and mine — 

God! but God is tender! 
We to sigh instead of sing, 

Yesterday, in sorrow, 
While the Lord was fashioning 

This for our To-morrow ! 



2o6 THE BLOSSOMS ON THE TREES. 



THE BLOSSOMS ON THE TREES. 

OLOSSOMS crimson, white, or blue, 
-*— ' Purple, pink, and every hue, 
From sunny skies, to tintings drowned 

In dusky drops of dew, 
I praise you all, wherever found, 

And love you through and through ; — 
But, Blossoms On The Trees, 
With your breath upon the breeze. 
There's nothing all the world around 

As half as sweet as you ! 

Could the rhymer only wring 

All the sweetness to the lees 
Of all the kisses clustering 

In juicy Used-to-bes, 
To dip his rhymes therein and sing 

The blossoms on the trees, — 
"O Blossoms on the Trees," 

He would twitter, trill and coo, 
" However sweet, such songs as these 

Are not as sweet as you:— 
For you are blooming melodies 

The ej/es may listen to ! " 



A DISCOURAGING MODEL. 207 



A DISCOURAGING MODEL. 

JUST the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing, 
With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing, 
Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air, 
And a knot of red roses sown in under there 
Where the shadows are lost in her hair. 

Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground 
Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound ; 
And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faint 
And as sweet as the masters of old used to paint 
Round the lips of their favorite saint! 

And that lace at her throat — and the fluttering hands 
Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands, 
The flakes of their touches— first fluttering at 
The bow — then the roses — the hair — and then that 
Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat. 

O what artist on earth with a model like this. 
Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, 
Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair, 
Nor the gold of her smile— O what artist could dare 
To expect a result half so fair? 



2o8 LAST NIGHT— AND THIS. 



LAST NIGHT— AND THIS. 

T AST night — how deep the darkness was ! 
"— ' And well I knew its depths, because 
I waded it from shore to shore, 
Thinking to reach the light no more. 

She would not even touch my hand. — 
The winds rose and the cedars fanned 
The moon out, and the stars fled back 
In heaven and hid — and all was black ! 

But ah! To-night a summons came, 
Signed with a teardrop for a name, — 
For as I wondering kissed it, lo, 
A line beneath it told me so. 

And now — the moon hangs over me 
A disk of dazzling brilliancy, 
And every star-tip stabs my sight 
With splintered glitterings of light! 



SEPTEMBER DARK. 209 



SEPTEMBER DARK. 

I. 

THE air falls chill ; 
The whip-poor-will 
Pipes lonesomely behind the hill: 
The dusk grows dense, 
The silence tense ; 
And lo, the katydids commence. 

II. 

Through shadowy rifts 

Of woodland, lifts 

The low, slow moon, and upward drifts, 

While left and right 

The fireflies' light 

Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night. 

III. 

O Cioudland, gray 

And level, lay 

Thy mists across the face of Day! 

At foot and head. 

Above the dead, 

O Dews, weep on uncomforted ! 



A GLIMPSE OF PAN. 



A GLIMPSE OF PAN. 

T CAUGHT but a glimpse of him. Summer was 
* here, 

And I strayed from the town and its dust and heat, 
And walked in a wood, while the noon was near. 
Where the shadows were cool, and the atmosphere 

Was misty with fragrances stirred by my feet 
From surges of blossoms that billowed sheer 

O'er the grasses, green and sweet. 

And I peered through a vista of leaning trees, 
Tressed with long tangles of vines that swept 

To the face of a river, that answered these 

With vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze, 
Till the yearning lips of the ripples crept 

And kissed them, with quavering ecstacies. 
And gurgled and laughed and wept. 

And there, like a dream in a swoon, I swear 
I saw Pan lying, — his limbs in the dew 

And the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glare 

Of the glad sunshine ; while everywhere. 
Over, across, and around him blew 

Filmy dragonflies hither and there. 
And little white butterflies, two and two, 
In eddies of odorous air. 



OUT OF NAZARETH. 



"H 



OUT OF NAZARETH. 

E shall sleep unscathed of thieves 
Who loves Allah and believes." 
Thus heard one who shared the tent, 
In the far-off Orient, 
Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz — 
Nobler never loved the stars 
Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim 
Dawn his courser neighed to him ! 

He said: "Let the sands be swarmed 

With such thieves as I, and thou 
Shalt at morning rise, unharmed, 

Light as eyelash to the brow 
Of thy camel, amber-eyed, 
Ever munching either side. 
Striding still, with nestled knees, 
Through the midnight's oases. 

' Who can rob thee an thou hast 
More than this that thou hast cast 
At my feet— this dust of gold? 
Simply this and that, all told ! 
Hast thou not a treasure of 
Such a thing as men call love? 



OUT OF NAZARETH. 



" Can the dusky band I lead 
Rob thee of thy daily need 
Of a whiter soul, or steal 
What thy lordly prayers reveal? 
Who could be enriched of thee 
By such hoard of poverty 
As thy niggard hand pretends 
To dole me — thy worst of friends? 

Therefore shouldst thou pause to bless 
One indeed who blesses thee: 

Robbing thee, I dispossess 
But myself. — Pray thou for me!" 

He shall sleep unscathed of thieves 
Who loves Allah and believes. 



THE IVANDERmC JEW. 213 



THE WANDERING JEW. 

T^HE stars are failing, and the sky 
*^ Is like a field of faded flowers ; 
The winds on weary wings go by ; 
The moon hides, and the temptest lowers ; 
And still through every clime and age 
I wander on a pilgrimage 
That all men know an idle quest. 
For that the goal 1 seek is— REST ! 

I hear the voice of summer streams, 

And, following, I find the brink 
Of cooling springs, with childish dreams 
Returning as I bend to drink — 

But suddenly, with startled eyes. 
My face looks on its grim disguise 
Of long gray beard ; and so, distressed, 
I hasten on, nor taste of rest. 

I come upon a merry group 

Of children in the dusky wood. 
Who answer back the owlet's whoop. 
That laughs as it had understood ; 
And 1 would pause a little space, 
But that each happy blossom-face 
Is like to one His hands have blessed 
Who sent me forth in search of rest. 



214 THE JVANDERING JEIV. 

Sometimes I fain would stay my feet 
In shady lanes, where huddled kine 
Couch in the grasses cool and sweet, 
And lift their patient eyes to mine; 
But I, for thoughts that ever then 
Go back to Bethlehem again, 
Must needs fare on my weary quest, 
And weep for very need of rest. 

Is there no end? I plead in vain: 

Lost worlds nor living answer me. 
Since Pontius Pilate's awful reign 
Have I not passed eternity? 

Have I not drank the fetid breath 

Of every fevered phase of death. 

And come unscathed through every pest 

And scourge and plague that promised rest? 

Have I not seen the stars go out 

That shed their light o'er Galilee, 
And mighty kingdoms tossed about 
And crumbled clod-like in the sea? 
Dead ashes of dead ages blow 
And cover me like drifting snow. 
And time laughs on as 'twere a jest 
That I have any need of rest. 



LONGFELLOIV. 215 



LONGFELLOW. 

nPHE winds have talked with him confidingly ; 
•"■ The trees have whispered to him ; and the night 

Hath held him gently as a mother might, 
And taught him all sad tones of melody: 
The mountains have bowed to him ; and the sea, 

In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite, 

Hath told him all her sorrow and delight — 
Her legends fair — her darkest mystery. 

His verse blooms like a flower, night and day; 
Bees cluster round his rhymes ; and twitterings 

Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, 
Are mingling with the tender songs he sings. — 

Nor shall he cease to sing — in every lay 

Of Nature's voice he sings — and will alway. 



2i6 JOHN McKEEN. 



JOHN MCKEEN. 

JOHN McKEEN, in his rusty dress, 
His loosened collar, and swarthy throat; 
His face unshaven, and none the less. 
His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, 
And the. wealth of a workman's vote! 

Bring him, O Memory, here once more, 

And tilt him back in his Windsor chair 
By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er 
And the light of the hearth is across the floor, 
And the crickets everywhere! 

And let their voices be gladly blent 

With a watery jingle of pans and spoons, 
And a motherly chirrup of sweet content. 
And neighborly gossip and merriment. 
And old-time fiddle-tunes! 

Tick the clock with a wooden sound. 

And fill the hearing with childish glee 
Of rhyming riddle, or story found 
In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound 
Old book of the Used-to-be ! 



JOHN McKEEN. 217 



John McKeen of the Past! Ah, John, 

To have grown ambitious in worldly ways ! — 
To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don 
A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone 
Out on election days ! 

John, ah, John ! did it prove your worth 
To yield you the office you still maintain? 

To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth 

Of all the happier things on earth 
To the hunger of heart and brain ? 

Under the dusk of your villa trees, 

Edging the drives where your blooded span 
Paw the pebbles and wait your ease, — 
Where are the children about your knees. 
And the mirth, and the happy man? 

The blinds of your mansion are battened to ; 

Your faded wife is a close recluse ; 
And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do 
Dutifully all that is willed of you. 

And marry as you shall choose! — 

But O for the old-home voices, blent 

With the watery jingle of pans and spoons, 
And the motherly chirrup of glad content, 
And neighborly gossip and merriment. 
And the old-time fiddle-tunes ! 



2i8 THEIR SIVEET SORROIV. 



THEIR SWEET SORROW. 

THEY meet to say farewell : Their way 
Of saying this is hard to say.— 
He holds her hand an instant, wholly 
Distressed — and she unclasps it slowly. 

He bends hts gaze evasively 

Over the printed page that she 
Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder 
Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her. 

The clock, beneath its crystal cup. 
Discreetly clicks— " 0?«c^.' ^d! Speak up!'" 

A tension circles both her slender 

Wrists — and her raised eyes flash in splendor, 

Even as he feels his dazzled own. — 
Then, blindingly, round either thrown. 
They feel a stress of arms that ever 
Strain tremblingly— and ''''Never! Never!" 

Is whispered brokenly, with half 

A sob, like a belated laugh, — 
While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes. 
Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's. 



SOME SCATTERING REMARKS OF BUB'S. 219 



SOME SCATTERING REMARKS OF BUB'S. 

WUNST I tooked our pepper-box lid 
An' cut little pie-dough biscuits, I did, 
And cooked 'em on our stove one day 
When our hired girl she said I may. 

Honeys the goodest thing — Oo-ooh ! 
And blackberry-pies is goodest, too ! 
But wite hot biscuits, ist soakin'-wet 
Wiv tree-mullasus, is goodest yet! 

Miss Maimie she's my Ma's friend, — an' 
She's purtiest girl in all the Ian' ! — 
An' sweetest smile an' voice an' face — 
An' eyes ist looks like p'serves tas'e' ! 

I ruiher go to the Circus-show; 
But, 'cause my parimts told me so, 
1 ruther go to the Sund'y School, 
'Cause there I learn the goldun rule. 

Say, Pa, — what is the goldun rule 
'At 's alius at the Sunday School ? 



MR. IVHATS-HIS-NAME. 



MR. WHAT'S-HIS-NAME. 

T^HEY called him Mr. What's-his-name : 
* From where he was, or why he came, 
Or when, or what he found to do, 
Nobody in the city knew. 

He lived, it seemed, shut up alone 

In a low hovel of his own ; 

There cooked his meals and made his bed. 

Careless of all his neighbors said. 

His neighbors, too, said many things 
Expressive of grave wonderings, 
Since none of them had ever been 
Within his doors, or peered therein. 

In fact, grown watchful, they became 
Assured that Mr. What's-his-name 
Was up to something wrong — indeed. 
Small doubt of it, we all agreed. 

At night were heard strange noises there. 
When honest people everywhere 
Had long retired; and his light 
Was often seen to burn all night. 



MR. IVHArS-HIS-NAME. 



He left his house but seldom — ^^then 
Would always hurry back again, 
As though he feared some stranger's knock, 
Finding him gone, m.ight burst the lock. 

Beside, he carried, every day. 
At the one hour he went away, 
A basket, with the contents hid 
Beneath its woven willow lid. 

And so we grew to greatly blame 
This wary Mr. What's-his-name, 
And look on him with such distrust 
v^His actions seemed to sanction just. 

But -C^en he died — he died one day — 
Dropped in the street while on his way 
To that old wretched hut of his — 
You '11 think it strange — perhaps it is — 

But when we lifted him, and past 
The threshold of his home at last, 
No man of all the crowd but stepped 
With reverence, — Aye, quailed and wept! 

What was it? Just a shriek of pain 
I pray to never hear again — 
A withered woman, old and bowed. 
That fell and crawled and cried aloud— 



MR. WHAT'S-HIS-NAME. 



And kissed the dead man's matted hair — 
Lifted his face and kissed him there — 
Called to him, as she clutched his hand, 
In words no one could understand. 

Insane? Yes. — Well, we, searching, found 
An unsigned letter, in a round 
Free hand, within the dead man's breast: 
" Look to my mother — / ^m at rest. 

' You '1 find my money safely hid 
Under the lining of the lid 
Of my work-basket. It is hers, 
And God will bless her ministers ! " 

And some day — though he died unknown — 
If through the City by the Throne 
I walk, all cleansed of earthly shame, 
I '11 ask for Mr. What's-his-name. 



IVHEN AGE COMES ON. 223 



WHEN AGE COMES ON. 

WHEN Age comes on ! — 
The deepening dusk is where the dawn 
Once glittered splendid, and the dew 
In honey-drips, from red rose-lips 

Was kissed away by me and you. — 
And now across the frosty lawn 
Black foot-prints trail, and Age comes on— 
And Age comes on ! 
And biting wild-winds whistle through 
Our tattered hopes— and Age comes on ! 

When Age comes on !^ 

O tide of raptures, long withdrawn. 

Flow back in summer-floods, and fling 
Here at our feet our childhood sweet. 

And all the songs we used to sing !... 
Old loves, old friends — all dead and gone — 
Our old faith lost — and Age comes on — 
And Age comes on ! 

Poor hearts ! have we not anything 
But longings left when Age comes on? 



224 ENVOY. 



<6 



ENVOY. 

TUST as of old! The world rolls on and on; 
^ The day dies into night — night into dawn — 
Dawn into dusk — through centuries untold. — 
Just as of old. 

Time loiters not. The river ever flows, 
Its brink or white with blossoms or with snows ; 
Its tide or warm with Spring or Winter cold: 
Just as of old. 

Lo ! where is the beginning, where the end 
Of living, loving, longing? Listen, friend ! — 
God answers with a silence of pure gold — 
Just as of old. 



''7, 



i 



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